Preface

Static
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at /works/34989667.

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series) Relationships: Valentino/Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Vox (Hazbin Hotel) Characters: Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor (Hazbin Hotel) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Abusive Relationships, Mildly Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Domestic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Glitchy Vox, Soft Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor Has a Heart (Hazbin Hotel), Asexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Non-Sexual Intimacy, Abusive Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Pining, Healing, Angst with a Happy Ending Language: English Stats: Published: 2021-11-07 Completed: 2021-11-26 Words: 22,672 Chapters: 3/3 Static

by passthevoxcord

Summary

Vox creates a new and improved version of himself to please Val, only to be replaced by it. He is left beaten and broken with no one to turn to . . . except maybe his oldest enemy, Alastor.

Notes

both inspirations are exquisite and made me feel all the feels 3

also! read russian translation from dwyi!

Inspired by Thawing Out by Seaside_Dreaming

Inspired by Eyes On Me by PARANOiD DJ

Chapter 1

static (adj.)

lacking movement, action, or change

"Uh-uh. Not good enough."

If Vox had a nickel for every time he heard that, he wouldn't need to put in all the work he did as overlord and partner. And what a loaded word that was, partner. It had started as a business venture, this whole fuckery, but it hadn't taken long for Valentino to get under his skin. Who wouldn't want him, after all? Look at those goddamn legs. And fangs. And glaring eyes, full of nothing but scorn for him.

"I want it taller, for one thing," Valentino says. "I told you that a week ago. Tall as me, is that so hard?"

Well, you could make that argument. Vox's new project is made of very expensive materials and stretching them to a ten-foot stature is no cheap endeavor. Of course, none of this will come from Porn Studio's funds. This is a gift from Vox to Val, or at least that's what the pimp twisted it into.

"And the cock needs at least five speeds," he continues. "You would know I love the heartbeat rhythm."

Vox stifles a sigh. He could film a hundred commercials back-to-back, but only with Valentino does he tire of repeating himself. Yes, he would know, yes, he can't have sex, yes, he gets how terribly painful that is for Valentino, yes, and humiliating too no doubt, yes, he'll try harder, yes, he would stab a hole straight through himself for Valentino to fuck if he'd like, no, that would electrocute him, yes, he knows he's stupid.

"And don't make it sound like you." Valentino gathers his scarlet coat around him as he stands from the seat at Vox's workbench. He had to get a chair specially built because he complains the furniture that fits Vox is all too small for him. "I don't want it to have a voice at all."

Vox jolts from his thoughts and nearly drops the soldering iron he'd been making adjustments with. "How will I talk to you?"

Valentino smirks, trailing tacky fingers along the edge of Vox's screen. "When you're in there, we won't be talking, baby."

Vox puts on a smile, but as soon as Valentino is out of sight—don't call me 'til you're done, Voxxy—he takes a microfiber cloth from an inner pocket of his jacket and wipes the fingerprints away. At one point he tried to instill a hands-free policy in regards to his head, but that particular chicken fucked the coop years ago. At times he regrets even highlighting this weakness, this sensitivity to substances on his screen. Valentino's game does not often involve mercy.

So this new project is a surprise. It's almost like a compromise, unheard of with the pimp. After their last spectacular failure at intercrural sex (and after Vox had regained sight through patchwork on the salvageable half of his face) they brainstormed solutions to rectify the issue. Vox had learned long ago that body modification wouldn't fly; his was a delicate balance of machinery and organism, and tipping the scale one way or another caused a violent rejection that could put him out of commission for a month if any sort of infection spread. Nasty business. So the closest alternative was to create another body, a vessel specifically designed to please Valentino, and transfer his consciousness to it.

Building was the easy part, Valentino's pickiness notwithstanding. The actual transfer might be another matter.

But, for the first time in a long time, he's optimistic. As he stares at the improved version of himself lying prone on the workshop table, he actually feels something like hope. If he can finally be the same size as Valentino, if he can finally please him the way he wants . . . maybe everything will work out. Maybe Valentino will finally be happy with him like he was when their partnership began. Before he got to know him. Before he discovered just how limited Vox, the preacher of limitlessness for a price, truly is.

We won't be talking, baby. No shocker there. They hardly talk as it is. Vox silences himself more often than not for fear of the dreaded back-talk. No sass, Voxxy. You know better. He does know better. He is very well-trained. And this body will be, too. Vox has already scripted an AI for it, similar to the program that runs his business when he's not at his computers. Far from simple, but not advanced either. When he's not in this vessel, he wants it to live here in his data center, shouldering the upkeep while he handles more important work. In this way it will be a relief for Valentino and for Vox as well; he doesn't trust anyone to enter the server room besides himself and Valentino, so any maintenance falls to him. After filming, editing, scheduling, programming, influencing, broadcasting, and whatever other errands Valentino has arranged for him, and of course attending to Valentino's more intimate needs as well.

Even now, Vox's vents gust a tired exhale. The batteries are running low. It wouldn't be the first time he's fallen asleep at this work bench.

But Valentino wants it finished, so he'll do it. He can hear the memory of himself saying it, rather faint though; he's had trouble remembering things lately, since the pimp's patience has hit an all time low. Maybe it's the head trauma, that can cause memory loss. Does that apply to him, in hell? He's not sure. No one explained to him how any of this works. He's just a guy trying to make a living. He's just a monster with another monster under his bed. A not-so-big fish in a pond of acid. A spoken metaphor with no one to listen.

Anything for you, doll. That's what he used to tell Val.

He misses when he actually meant it.

It's a handful of hours later. Vox has a biological clock—har har—and several others on the monitors along the walls, because every room in this data center is adorned with analytical screens in place of windows, but he ignores them and the exhaustion pressing at him. Did he sleep last night? Hell is always more awake when the sky goes dark, and his piece of the pentagram is so alive with neon and blue light that it's always day anyway. Sleep is for the weak, his slice of city whispers. Keep scrolling. Keep watching. Stay tuned.

He pulls up short for a precious second. No, he can't use that one. It's nothing new for him to think thoughts that belong to other people, but even a man like him—or this thing that a man like him has become—can admit that some things really ought to be sacred.

He wouldn't dare think of Alastor in the studio; it feels like Valentino can see right through him sometimes, straight into what should be the most private parts of him. He's 99% sure Valentino thinks it's bloodlust that Vox has for the radio demon, which isn't inaccurate. Or, at least, it used to be accurate. It started out as plain hatred between the two media demons, but then again it started out as plain attraction between him and Valentino. He maybe even loved him, once. Does he still? No. Probably. Right? No. Yeah.

Things never used to be so sticky.

Vox steps back and admires his work. The body is complete, shiny and new. Standing next to it, Vox can't help but feel dusty, aged, inferior. By design, he reminds himself. This is him, New and Improved.

"Vox2.0," he says. Not a bad ring. He walks a circle around it, standing at attention like a soldier, lock-kneed and arms at side. "At ease," he says, but of course nothing happens. The AI isn't activated; the screen is on but a dull off-black, awaiting input. This is what Vox looks like when he cuts out his facial animations, something he prefers not to do even when he's alone. It's self-expression, right? And he has as much right to it as anyone else . . . right?

Vox, I'm trying to sleep. Turn your fucking face off.

Maybe not.

Val is on his way. He said he wanted to be here for the transfer. He's almost thirty minutes late, but Vox tries not to be irritated. He's too tired for it anyway. It doesn't matter. A lot of things don't matter when you letting it go is the difference between sleeping in bed tonight or powering down while a robot meticulously removes microscopic glass shards from your inner wiring.

All of a sudden, it occurs to Vox to be nervous. He hasn't tested this. He assumed it would be relatively simple, but what if it's not? What if the acclimation process is too much for him and his mind rejects the body? What if he can't control it once he's inside it? What if then he can't get back into his own body and he's stuck inside a vessel that doesn't belong to him, with no way out, living a life that isn't his, and no one can hear him scream?

Vox's vents chug air against his shirt. He doesn't remove anything, just takes some deep breaths, tries his best to ignore his racing heart, and reaches out to touch Vox2.0's bare chest. A physical connection, infinitely easier than the wireless ones he forms every day. This is child's play. Just slip inside like he would a screen, populate it with his data, see through new eyes . . .

Nothing.

He reaches for it, for anything, but there's nothing. No sense of sameness, even, like this creation isn't made of the same wires he is. And maybe it's not. He wasn't made by hand. He doesn't try to puppet the TVs he puts his face on. Why was he so pompous, to think he could accomplish a task so advanced as this? He is a failure. He scatters tools, searching desperately in the work drawers for some cable to perhaps connect them, but he knows it's futile even before the door opens.

Heels clip-clop across the floor.

Vox closes his eyes. His heart feels numb.

"Why do you look like that, Voxxy? Is something wrong?"

The words come sweet, curious, innocent. If Vox didn't know him, he'd think it was genuine concern.

Vox knows him.

"I'm sorry, Val," he says, low and steady. It takes a lot of strength, but he doesn't let his voice shake. "It didn't work. I'm sorry."

A pause. Vox feels sick.

"Look at me."

These words are not sweet, they are venomous. Vox can do nothing but obey.

Valentino looms over him, eyes narrowed to furious slits. A hand holds a cigarette despite Vox telling him countless times not to smoke around equipment that needs clean air circulating through its vents. He'd hate to see the state of his own filtration system. Could he remove it to clean it? Or would that just kill him?

For one frozen moment, he's transfixed by this idea: ripping off his mechanical exoskeleton, baring the tender mysteries of his insides, and scraping out all of the darkness that's accumulated. Maybe then he would finally feel clean again.

"You knew how much this meant to me," Valentino says, laced with a snarl. "And yet you let me get my hopes up. I really thought you could do it, baby. I was looking forward to this present. And look what you did. You ruined it."

If Vox could cry, he would. Sadness wells inside him, shuddering the image on his screen. "I'm so sorry—"

"Shut your fucking mouth. Apologies won't make me feel any better. You know that. Your words mean nothing to me. I couldn't care less what you say. I care what you do." Valentino's fury melts into regret. "And do you know what you did?"

Vox can barely breathe. He feels like he has a grenade in his chest.

Valentino shakes his head, almost piteously. "You let me down, baby."

Vox can't think of anything to say. Not that it matters anyway. There is nothing, because he is nothing. The monster is here; there's no hiding from it and there's sure as hell no fighting it. It's just endurance. That's the baseline of Val's game. He wasn't lying when he said he values stamina over strength. Vox just has to survive each encounter and then he wins. What does he win? Another encounter.

Valentino's face is contorted again, predatory in its rage. "Kneel."

Please don't.

Vox lowers to his knees.

Please, please don't.

Valentino towers over him.

Please, I'll be good.

His boots are gorgeous.

Please.

Valentino kicks Vox's face in.

It's the solid shock of impact followed by familiar pulsing pain. He drops flat to the floor, picks himself up onto hands and knees, then sways sideways into something. He has the vague sense that he bounced off of it when he was flung. The wall?

"Get away from that," Valentino hisses. "You break those and you'll know what hurt really feels like, sugar."

Vox's vision returns in fragments; he must have some glass left to see through. Oh, he hit one of the server towers. Through the agony and exhaustion, he feels a faint glimmer of derision. As if Val knows anything about how any of these computers work. All he knows is that they power all of his porn sites, store all of his archived videos, and represent what Vox has created for the pair of them. This data center is the heart of the empire. Makes sense, probably, for Vox to be broken inside it.

"You know you're nothing without that." Valentino is still talking. Vox can't quite focus on the sounds. His balance regulation is off too; he keeps almost falling down again. It takes all of his attention to keep still on all-fours. Standing is a far-off land of unicorns and rainbows. "Don't touch things more valuable than you. Without them, you're nothing."

Vox knew that already. Sparks spit from his screen. Overlord? Yeah, right. Less than nothing.

Valentino blows a cloud of red smoke around Vox. "Get yourself fixed up, if you can manage that. And don't bother coming home anytime soon. I've earned a night with a dozen whores after this fucking treatment. With any luck, I'll forget about you."

Yes, Vox thinks blearily, that would be lucky.

Valentino pauses a moment longer, then shoves over the body with one hand, adjusts his glasses with another, takes another drag from his cigarette with the third, and flips Vox off with the last as he strides away. The sound of glass crunching under high heels will never not make fear unfurl inside him.

Vox stumbles and crawls forward until he can see where Vox2.0 crashed to the floor. Thankfully, he fell backward; his screen is undamaged. It is made of tougher stuff than the ones that Vox's body will allow, so maybe Vox2.0 will never have to worry about this chore. Maybe it won't be a fact of life for him. Actually . . .

He drags himself upright on the workbench along the wall and, still on his knees, fumbles for the keyboard. He types in the command with a shaky claw. ACTIVATE.

Vox2.0 stands up, again waiting for input, though his face shows a grin not unlike Vox's infamous face. No emotion is behind it, however. No fiendish malice, no pride or glory. Just code.

Against his better judgment, Vox softens. Finally, an ally.

"H3x-elP m_e," he says through glitches.

Vox2.0 obeys.

When Vox wakes, it's early morning—early enough that Valentino is probably just getting ready for bed. He's not strictly nocturnal, though that would make sense for a moth; it's more that he lives all aspects of life to be the most convenient for him. It doesn't matter if there's work for him to be done today. Vox can do it.

Once, it felt good. Good to be needed. Good to be necessary. Good to be trusted with important work.

Now it's just another reminder. He works, or he's nothing. As emphasized mere hours ago.

Vox stands up from the table. He feels at the edges of his screen. A seamless fitting. Vox2.0 did well. But where is he now? Vox makes a round of the massive server room. Workbenches line each of the walls, alive with computers and mini machines Vox once had time for. He's hit with a memory like a slap in the face, one that should be locked away good and tight.

Quiet boy, isn't he? Just likes to sit in his room and tinker with those tools. Fresh air would do him good. Small for his age. Oh, who knows, maybe he's on to something, eh? Ha.

Vox picks up a tiny wind-up car from one of the benches. He can't remember making it. A flight of fancy. A self-soothe, probably, the good blocked out with the bad. This is how you get infection, he knows. This is how you die.

He crushes the car in his clawed fingers. Electricity sparks, burning the plastic. So much for clean air.

And here, suddenly, is Vox2.0. His screen shows the oxygen levels in the room, the cooling needed for each stack of headless computers, and indicates an error in this sector. He holds out a hand, expectant, and Vox places the toy onto his palm. He almost apologizes, but swallows that. Just like Val said: his words are meaningless.

Vox2.0 walks out to dispose of the car, then returns to stand before Vox. His screen is a face again, an unbreakable grin. For a split second Vox feels intimidated. How badass would it be to look like this, to tower over everybody with his blue light smile? Is this why Valentino feels so powerful? He gets it. Maybe.

After a moment of just standing there Vox feels unnerved. "What do you want?"

Vox2.0 seems to process this request, then his screen flashes to a list of tasks, each with a check next to it. He has done all the busy work around the data center while Vox slept off his surgery. Faster than Vox would have, no doubt, but of course. Vox2.0 doesn't feel tired, doesn't feel emotionally drained, doesn't have sentimental memories dragging him down. He's as close to perfect as a flawed creator could get him.

He's also naked. Vox is getting tired of being on eye-level with yet another dick.

"Order yourself a suit like mine," Vox orders. "Access your dimensions through your schematic."

Vox2.0 obeys. Vox can see his processes on his screen. He's fast. Efficient. He navigates the wireless network so effortlessly . . . but he has benefited from Vox's learning. Is this what legacy feels like? Improving life for next generations? Not that Vox2.0 is a new generation. He's nothing more than a machine. A robot with a very convincing likeness to someone who is actually alive—or, as close to alive as you can be in hell.

"Hide your progress until specifically asked for it," Vox advises. "Val won't want to see it."

Vox2.0 obeys. His grin is back, unfazed.

"You can put other things on your face, you know," Vox says, offering a range of emotive animations on his own screen. "But context is important. You probably won't understand that."

Vox2.0 mirrors the expressions as they flicker, then returns to his grin. It's slightly different now, though, more contemplative. Vox gets the peculiar impression that he's thinking.

Vox steps back. "No. You're not a he. You're not a person. You're an it. Understand?" Vox2.0's brow furrows and Vox holds up a hand. "That's a rhetorical. I know you don't understand a one-sentence question. You're a computer."

Vox2.0 smiles down at him, impassive.

Vox stares. ". . . How did you know to put that face on? You looked confused. And it was right."

Vox2.0's mouth doesn't move, but sound still plays. A recording: "Context is important."

Vox didn't know he programmed that functionality in. "Show processes."

The screen shows an order for a suit successfully placed as well as an ongoing scan through all the recordings of Vox that exist on the internet, TV, and housed on their servers. It doesn't matter how streamlined Vox made his code, evidently. It is learning, adapting, evolving anyway.

An extremely valuable experiment. This could be a whole new skew of Vogitech. This could make bank.

"Okay," Vox says. "Good. Good work. Keep doing what you're doing. Hide processes."

Vox2.0 smirks, perhaps going for a look of being proud of himself. Vox doesn't bother thinking that it probably had to go pretty far back to find an expression like that on his face. Nothing negative like that can touch him now. Once Val sees this, he'll forgive him. It'll be good again.

"Get dressed when your suit gets here," Vox orders. "And meet me in the car."

As he suspected, the studio is winding down as the sun starts to rise. Vox doesn't dare go straight to the penthouse; interrupting at the very end of an orgy would not be conducive to a good Val mood. He just tells the receptionist to leave a message for the pimp that he's here and his present is ready. The receptionist gives a slight eyebrow quirk to Vox2.0 and Vox wonders how many of the passing whores think he's standing here beside a massive sex toy.

Not wrong, really. He pushes himself up onto a seat and feels grim satisfaction when Vox2.0 is just the right size for the throne-like chairs of the waiting area. If only he could be that, if only his toes could touch the floor, if only he didn't feel like a child in this oversize world. Alice, it occurs to him from nowhere. Some fucking Wonderland.

It's forty minutes later when the receptionist tells them to head upstairs. Vox hears moans through the walls of the elevator, some high and some low depending on the floor. Every vice you could possibly think of is catered to in this building. Nothing is too filthy, too depraved, too twisted for Val to offer. So it's no surprise that the pimp is so frustrated with Vox's featureless body, is it? When he's used to this world of spread legs, fat asses, plush lips, oozing juices and dripping release. Vox can give him none of that. No wonder he's nothing.

But I made up for it. He looks up at Vox2.0, pleased. "Do whatever he says," he whispers. "No matter what it is. Your main job is making him happy. Get me?"

Vox2.0 inclines its head.

"Good." Vox faces forward again as the elevator reaches its destination. "Showtime."

The penthouse suite is a '70s regurgitation. The decade threw up scarlet and pink fluff over every surface, rounding edges and abandoning aesthetic, then wiped its mouth on the horrific heart-patterned curtains. Vox can't even ironically appreciate it. He's just glad Valentino has a bit more style in his clothes, because his home is just as tacky as his skin.

Thankfully there's no sign of whatever fun was had last night other than the pimp lying half-naked in a hot pink housecoat on his waterbed. Even the water inside is pink; Satan help those poor fucking fish. Valentino looks sated, at least, sucking languidly on his cigarette. He seems gentler without his tinted sunglasses on, for whatever reason. In the glow of lamplight, he's actually quite handsome. Vox feels a familiar ache of longing and tries his best to ignore it. If he's in for a life of cuckholdry, well, at least now he can watch and imagine it's him doing the fucking.

"Val," he says, putting his best TV announcer voice on, "I'd like to introduce you to Vox2.0. He doesn't just listen to every word you say, he also learns and anticipates. Have him for a day and he'll be doing things before you even ask. And he's wired to please you and you alone, doll."

Valentino slowly exhales red smoke. He studies them both for a long moment, then finally says, "Take your dick out."

Vox almost reaches for his fly, but he knows better. This isn't some attempt at inclusive roleplay. Val wouldn't be caught dead indulging someone else. No, this is just an order he can't fulfill. But I made up for it. I made up for it.

Vox2.0 obeys. He holds his cock at the base, no doubt having studied porn videos on the drive over, and starts to pump it slowly, a tease. Vox hates how natural it looks and hates how Val runs that gooey tongue over his teeth. This is what they wanted, he reminds himself. This is the goal he was supposed to achieve.

Valentino's long legs slip free of his housecoat, spreading on the bed, revealing his own stirring erection. Vox tries not to stare. More than once, he's considered what kind of damage Val might inflict if he could penetrate him. He's so big, all of him is massive . . . Well. That's unfair. Valentino explained it to him.

I'm not big, sweetheart. You're just too fuckin' small.

That makes sense.

"Get lost, Voxxy," Valentino says as he beckons Vox2.0. "I expect privacy while I try out my new toy."

Vox freezes. Will he not even be allowed to watch? After all that work? For them?

"I'll call you," Val adds, obviously annoyed at the hesitation. He wraps a hand around Vox2.0 and his fangs glisten in a grin. "Speed two, baby."

I'll call you. Vox repeats it over and over as the elevator descends. I'll call you. This means the pimp isn't mad at him. He's happy with Vox2.0. He just wants to try him out, get a feel of things before he puts on any shows for Vox. This is understandable. Vox doesn't like getting thrown onscreen without reading his script a few times. And when has Valentino ever wanted to appear anything close to weak? Vox gets it. He wants to master it so Vox won't have to tell him how anything works. And plus, he's probably tired too. He's been up all night, and Vox upset him last night. Vox shouldn't be so greedy. Val is happy and wants some rest. He deserves it. Vox can breathe easy.

He walks the streets with a skip in his step, grinning at everyone who shies away from him. He's back in business. He fucked up but he fixed it. He's untouchable.

And then he catches a flash of crimson and true euphoria sparks in his systems.

Alastor is always strolling these streets, making his presence known in subtle ways. He hums and then demons find themselves with a song on the tip of their tongues, only to hear it that night during a broadcast and feel like it was a sign. The radio is so good, it always plays the song you want to hear. Or he'll give patronage to little shops throughout hell, spreading anecdotal evidence of a gentlemanly persona. I heard he was perfectly civil to the waiter at that new café on the corner. You never know what he might do. A wildcard is a never-ending fascination, after all. Loathe though he might the tactics of television, he employs the tricks of the trade in his own way.

"Alastor," Vox says grandly, falling into step beside the radio demon. "You're up early. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Where are we on that, by the way, do I get to know if you have a tail yet? I've only been waiting decades."

"Ah, I see hell has not yet cured itself of this particular venereal disease," Alastor remarks. "What a pity."

If only he knew that Vox has even lower risk of contracting and spreading such things than Alastor himself. That is a truly damning detail, however. If it got out that Vox is effectively impotent, well, laughingstock doesn't even scratch the surface. And it wouldn't just be his own reputation on the line. But he's not thinking about that stuff right now. Alastor is here. Vox is tuned to a single frequency.

"A pretty pity," Vox agrees. "There's a downside to the screen, makes a man miss a good hard T. I got no punch to my consonants. No tongue, no teeth. I'm all synthesized, honey."

He drags an oscillator through the words, carving a harsh digital vibrato. Not quite as smooth as intended, but Alastor only flicks an ear at it.

"Yes, well, take comfort in the fact that you'd be just as insufferable were you analog," Alastor assures him. He stops there on the sidewalk, his microphone appearing in his hand to serve as a cane he rests both hands on. His smile is unbroken, naturally, but something like irritation flashes in his eyes. "Tell me, have I done my penance for the day or is your continued presence punishment for perhaps selling my mother in a past life?"

Vox grins wider. Sometimes it feels like his screen isn't wide enough to hold it. "Huh, I didn't know you had a mother. I figured you just crawled out of the abyss."

Alastor chuckles, a sharp crackled laugh. "Well, you know what they say. Battle not with monsters."

Vox slips his hands into his pockets. "I think it's a little late for lests, pal. We became a while ago."

Alastor arches an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you could read."

Vox mirrors his expression. "How d'you figure I know what my ratings are?"

A group of giggling young hellborns fall silent at the sight of them standing there; Vox moves over so they can walk by single-file, giving a wide berth to the pair of media demons. Vox watches them go, wonders what they must think of him. A scary guy, a valued service? He wouldn't hurt them. He has no reason to. He's not even sure he remembers how.

"Ahem."

Vox blinks, guilt roiling in his gut. "Did you say something?"

Alastor raises both eyebrows now. "Only that I doubted you had attention span enough for a book."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess not anymore." The only book he's seen in recent memory is Val's black book that holds all the kinks and aliases of the johns who frequent the brothel rooms of his studio. He's never read it. None of his business. He prefers using other weaknesses against people. "Caught the end of your broadcast last week. You should play something a little more upbeat next time."

Alastor scoffs. "I think you're confusing our businesses, television. You are the one supplying the highs, the miracle pills, the get-rich-quicks. I am the shadow to your obnoxious neon moon. I offer an hour of reality to any willing to hear it. Happiness is no more a finality than death, after all."

Vox feels those words wrap around him like a warm sweater, lets them build inside him like a house of cards: delicate, but still mighty, fortifying. He's almost too drunk on them to form a question. "Who said that one?"

Alastor smiles, without teeth this time. "I did." He turns his back on Vox, microphone vanished, hands clasped neatly behind him. "Until next time. Perhaps then my claws shall be acquainted with your wires." He laughs to himself, oblivious to the frightened glances of passersby, and calls over his shoulder, "What thrilling conversation that would make for!"

Vox watches him go until it feels too pathetic, then turns away to head back to his data center. It feels like days since he's sat at his desk to do his own work, and even longer since he felt rejuvenated enough to look forward to it. Ten minutes with Alastor, with a stimulating back-and-forth, and he feels so alive. Why does he feel more listened to with his nemesis than with his lover? Why does he have inside jokes with someone he's supposed to hate, but not the man he'd like to share a bed with?

He wonders how things got so fucked up, but he supposes he doesn't deserve much better.

He's been wired in for hours when a ding from his phone disrupts his flow. He shuts down everything immediately, grabbing for it. He doesn't want to be accused of ignoring a single text. Sure enough, it's from Val.

come back to me baby

Vox requires no convincing. He's on the road in seconds.

He walks in to moans he hasn't been allowed to hear in weeks. Valentino is on all-fours on the waterbed, two hands holding him up while one reaches between his legs to milk precum from his cock and the other stuffs fingers down his own throat, slobber trailing down his arm. Always the oral fixation. Behind him, Vox2.0 pounds steadily into his ass, its screen projecting an aroused face Vox isn't sure he's ever made before. It's playing audio again as well, recordings of Val's previous moans and cries and curses. Vox can't tell where his desire ends and his envy begins.

"Fuck me, baby, that's it," Valentino purrs, claws digging dangerously into the bed. Vox2.0 is waterproof, but Vox isn't. He lounges on one of the loveseats, feet off the floor just in case. Val's eyes find him and he groans. "Deeper. Fuck me like you mean it, Voxxy."

Oh, how he wants to. Vox2.0 is so sleek and sexy, and Valentino is the most hideous, gorgeous wreck beneath him, and Vox wants all of it so badly. He reaches between his legs, slides his hand up and down, but there's nothing. It's emasculating and not even in a good way. He's tried vibration, electrocution, warmth, cold, pain—nothing brings pleasure to his body. Nothing even comes close to the feeling of coziness he felt on the street today . . .

No. Those thoughts aren't safe here. This is Val's game and, right now, he has the home team advantage.

"C'mere," Val says, crooking a finger that was just in his mouth. "Come with me, baby."

Vox eyes the bed but he can't say no. He wants this, needs this, the intimacy hell has starved him of. He lets his knees rest against the bed, goes to cup Valentino's face, but his hands are swatted away. Instead, a long tongue slips out, tracing the grin that he has to fight to keep onscreen. He will not shudder. He will not show his disgust. This is for them.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck me," Valentino cries, higher and more grating until at last Vox2.0 gives one good hard thrust and Val rears back, slamming his hands down on Vox's head to hold him in place as ropes of cum plaster his screen. Val convulses a few more times, sighing in short-lived relief from his ever-nagging itch, and slumps back on the bed, already reaching for a cigarette.

Vox hangs there a moment, blind and repulsed. He can feel the slow, heavy slide of the viscous stuff making its way down his screen. He fumbles for the cloth in his jacket, hurriedly wiping it away before it can slip through the crack at the bottom. The last thing he needs is to have foreign matter inside him. No doubt the pimp would just find that hot. And maybe Vox should too. Maybe he's a prude. Maybe he should stop being so easily upset.

When he can see again, Valentino is lying back against the pillows and Vox2.0 is cleaning him up. The image is evocative of a huge, lanky baby being wiped and pampered. Has Val ever felt shame? Is it even possible?

Awash in afterglow, Val blows a contented red-smoked sigh. "You did a great job with Vox2.0, baby. I love him."

Something swells inside him. Love?

"Yeah, he's a great fuck both ways, we tried every position while you were gone. And he was editing video this afternoon. He's great, knows just what I want and how to get it done fast. And shows me all the information I need to know on his screen. Ain't that convenient?"

"I can do that too," Vox blurts out. "I didn't know you wanted the stats. I thought it . . . was just easier for me to handle it all."

Valentino tuts. "Oh, Voxxy. This is what I've been telling 2.0 here. You're overworking yourself. It's not all on your shoulders, baby. We're partners, remember? We look out for each other."

Relief begins to bloom. Maybe this prison is self-made. Maybe he could have been talking to Val all along. Maybe he's been too hard on him. He's right, after all, he is overworked. Who's to say he's not right about everything else?

"So I've been thinking today, in between fucking my brains out." Val taps ash into a heart-shaped tray. "I think this isn't just a present for me. I think it's one for you, too. Listen to this slice of fried gold, baby. You can take a step back, have some rest. Don't worry about the stress of the limelight. Vox2.0 can handle that. He can be the one doing all the TV appearances. Like our little mascot, get me? Then you can just handle the behind-the-scenes. You can sit at that little desk of yours to your heart's content and never see daylight again." He grins. "Tell me I'm a genius, sugar."

It's tiny, for now, but he still feels the fracture inside him as realization dawns. "But I am television. My power comes from people watching, Val. If I'm not the one on the screen—"

The pimp's brow furrows. "No sass, Voxxy. Listen, I didn't want to say this, but you need a wake-up call. I can tell you're getting weaker and pretty soon everybody else will too. What will your reputation look like then? Who's gonna protect you? This is in both our best interests, baby. I'm looking out for you, just like I said."

Vox looks to Vox2.0, but the robot has nothing but the default grin on its screen. It stands beside the bed, no longer at attention but leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed over its chest, unabashed about its pendulous penis and uncaring about the fingerprints covering its once pristine body. Vox can barely stand the translucent smears on his own screen. Is nothing down here clean? Don't they ever tire of this glamorous grime?

Vox shifts his attention back to Valentino. He's awaiting an answer. Expecting acquiescence. Yes, Val. Another order. Another scheme. But this is unlike any other. To ask Vox, an overlord, to step away? To hide himself even more? To become a myth while this robot parades around pretending to be him, no doubt attached to Valentino at the hip and allowing the pimp to speak for him from here on out?

As if he knows anything about technology. As if he knows how hard Vox fought to rise to the top.

"No," he says.

Valentino's eyes narrow. "You heard me. No sass."

For the first time in recent memory, Vox raises his voice. "No. I said no. "

Fresh fury pinches the pimp's face. "I think you're forgetting how this works. I get what I want, when I want it. That's in the contract you signed. That's what you agreed to. And I'll get a yes out of you one way or another." He stands from the bed, no trace of contentment left. "Kneel."

Vox's hands fist at his sides. It takes everything in him, and the vents along his ribs shove out hot air, but he holds his ground. He does not kneel. "No."

Veins stand out against Val's smooth forehead. Spit flies from his fangs as he snarls, "Get on your fucking knees!"

Vox cranks his volume to the max, static crackling from his hands. "NO."

Valentino moves to grab him, but stops. Hope flares painfully inside him. Has Vox finally proven that he is not weak? That he is not something to play with, something to break and fix and break again? That he is worthy of respect and, yes, of fear?

The pimp turns away, contempt rolling off his shoulders. "Put it out of its misery."

Vox2.0 obeys.

He is disposed of in a dumpster behind the building, with the other rotten and ruined.

He wakes in early morning, dead morning. He is made of pain, which is proof he is alive.

He can't hold in the pitiful whimpers and gasps of agony as he drags himself from the garbage, along the alleys and backstreets, out of the city. Every staggered step is unspeakably painful, but he is reborn with each infrared flash of blood. This is his exodus. This is the phoenix rising from ash.

He has not stepped foot in the forest since he fell. This is not his territory. He is an intruder.

He trips over a tree root and crashes to the ground. He can't see, and then he can; glass shards clink softly in the grass. He picks them up even as they cut into his fingers. Sparks cough from his wounds. He is voiceless, nameless. He is just what Valentino wanted him to be.

Doubt nags at him. He doesn't deserve help. He has nowhere else to go. He is nothing. He is . . .

At last, the tower comes into sight. Rusted, coated in climbing vines, it is a part of this forest just like the trees. Flowers grow in a little garden. A soft tune hums out through a parted window. All of it is alight in the tender glow of dawn. Home?

He collapses at the door. He cups glass with one hand and shakily knocks with the other.

How humiliating, to be found like this.

Perhaps he won't even be home.

Perhaps he'll return hours from now to Vox helpless on his doorstep.

Perhaps then he truly will be put out of his misery.

What hurt really feels like, sugar.

The door opens.

Vox falls to his feet, chest heaving, vents unable to cool him. He is going to crash. He has finally found his limit.

"Plzz_3Axse," he tries, barely intelligible through sparks and glitches. "Px-P1e@-xx8nnnnszxg. Ple—"

"Enough of that." Alastor steps aside, clearing the doorway. "I expect you're looking for someone to harbor you until your face returns to you. I will admit, mine is an unlikely but beneficial hospitality to abuse. One must always be prepared for unexpected guests, so I shall extend some mercy to you. I'm hardly a vulture; it's a fight or nothing for me when it comes to killing. A predator gets lazy if all his meals are just lying there for him, hm? Ah, speaking of! You picked an excellent time to arrive, albeit uncouthly early. I've just taken my tea cakes from the oven. Well? What are you waiting for?" Alastor gestures inward. "Come in."

It's slow, unsteady, and so very painful, but for once no one rushes him. Vox stands and steps into salvation.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

alastor is quoting robert frost's "acceptance" for anyone wondering :)

static (adj.)

computing process unable to be changed

For twenty-four hours, Vox sleeps the sleep of the dead. When dawn touches him again, he jolts awake.

It's a slow acclimation. No red, no plush, no blue light, no monitors. No numbers, no lust. Just natural light slanting through glass speckled by dew and bits of leaves left from the last storm. He's on the couch in the little sitting room on the ground floor. He has no idea if there are actual guest rooms in the upper floors; he couldn't manage the stairs. It's the opposite of Val's sleaze: comfortable cushions that hold you up rather than envelop you, clean white lace on the end tables, paintings of calm meadows and framed pressings of leaves on the walls.

This is Alastor's home. He's inside the tower. After years of seeing it as only a distant red light from the penthouse view, he's finally here. Gutted and broken, but welcomed nonetheless.

It's a blur. He vaguely remembers Alastor opening the door for him but he was blacking out by the time he dropped onto his makeshift bed. Was he offered some kind of biscuit?

He gingerly feels at his face. It's far from whole, but at least he can see. There's been no change since last night. It is possible to regenerate his screen, but it takes time. Perfectly clear glass is just that, perfect, and perfection cannot be rushed. To appear before the demons of hell with his screen obliterated is not something he can risk. I can tell you're getting weaker. Your reputation. There's truth in it. If people think they can overthrow him . . . they might just be right.

Show no weakness. That's the overlord way.

But Alastor is exempt from that little song and dance. He's not an overlord, doesn't claim any piece of the city except the airwaves. Another side of his enigma: he would rather live out here in the woods and trek to the city every day than live among the people he entertains. Vox often tries to seem human to them, perhaps because he is so removed from that physically, but Alastor makes no pretenses. He is not like them.

Maybe Vox isn't either. Maybe he's been pretending his whole life.

Quiet boy.

He pushes to his feet. His stabilizers are working again, that's good news. He doesn't try to speak, knows that's still abuzz with glitches as long as his screen is fucked. But his body doesn't pulsate with pain anymore. Untroubled rest did him good.

He hears quiet music from the kitchen so he heads inside. Pleasant to have doorways of a comfortable size. He's not sure down to the exact inch, but Alastor must be close to his height. They can look each other in the eye.

Alastor glances up from the tea he's sipping at the table. "Ah, the nightmare wakes from slumber."

"Drexzam1Ng of El3ctr1c she_3p," he says, then winces at both his garbled voice and Alastor's blank look. "Szszsorry. Paszt yoUr t-t1me."

Alastor gestures vaguely to the chair across from him. Vox sits, bashing his knee into a table leg in his haste.

Now Alastor raises an eyebrow. He doesn't ask, though. Just takes another sip and waits.

Vox folds his hands on the tabletop, then steeples his fingers, then taps his claws together so a tiny arc of electricity forms between them. An old trick, not quite magic.

"I would appreciate if you did not set my tablecloth on fire," Alastor tells him.

"It wxon't," Vox says. He taps the table instead to illustrate. "N0t coN-nducT1ve."

"Ah." Alastor sips his tea again. "Forgive me, science was never my area of expertise."

Vox inclines his head slightly. It's easier than speaking, for more than one reason.

It's enough, for now, to just sit here with Alastor. So bizarre, to see him in such a domestic setting. He's no less made-up than he is on the streets of hell, clad in his blood-red vestments, but there's a certain vulnerability to it still. This is his kitchen. He's sat here, presumably, on countless days by himself, lips on that teacup, brushing crumbs from his fingers with a napkin. It's so . . . normal. Human, Vox realizes.

Alastor is, without a doubt, as much a killer as any overlord and perhaps even worse. He is a sinner and a monster.

But he's being kind.

Vox admits to the possibility that Alastor could be just as fake as Val. He could wait until Vox regenerates and then strike him down. And it would be smart to do that. Vox can't fault him no matter what he does, because it will never compare to the ongoing cruelty of Valentino. Nothing could ever be that bad.

"I was surprised to see you sleep," Alastor remarks suddenly. A softer tone than usual, a thoughtful one. "I didn't realize a machine would need to. But I suppose you are more than that, hm?"

Vox only nods again. That much he's sure of.

Alastor flicks an ear at some unheard forest sound. He's more an animal out here as well, his natural habitat perhaps. "I wouldn't be surprised if you assumed I didn't sleep too. I do, if you're wondering now, from time to time. The mind benefits from respite every now and again."

A third nod and a look of surprise at this admittance of weakness. Not weakness, he corrects himself. Just proof that he's alive.

With a claw, Alastor clinks out the rhythm of the nearby radio on the side of his cup. "Well. I must say my curiosity is piqued. Tell me, do you eat or drink at all?"

"Nx0."

"Oh, good. Then I won't need to make extra trips to the grocer on your account. And I won't have extra mess to force you to clean up. How splendid!"

Vox tries to laugh but he can't quite manage it; all he can hear is Valentino snarling to pick up that fucking glass before someone hurts themselves. Do you ever stop making messes? Fresh sparks spit from the largest crack in his screen and Vox puts a hand over his face as if to conceal tears.

Alastor's smile is back, the one he puts on just as impersonally as he fastens the bowtie around his neck. He turns away, depositing his teacup and saucer in the sink, so Vox can't see if his eyes are annoyed or not. He wants to ask him so badly why he agreed to house him but he doesn't want to disturb whatever fragile magic has kept him safe.

Goddamn, he misses being a kid. Hungry for knowledge but unbothered if he received it or not.

"Well." Alastor's microphone appears at hand. "Away I shall go, to brighter pastures and all that."

Vox stares at him. "Nxzno—"

"I will be returning," Alastor says dryly.

Still, fear cramps Vox's chest. He doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts. He just wants to sit here at the table and listen to Alastor talk about nothing for hours and hours . . .

Alastor raises an eyebrow, unamused. "I will not be playing nursemaid, television. You are here simply for the roof over that spectacularly unprotected head of yours. My life has not, does not, and will not revolve around you. And, come to think of it, nor should yours around mine. Do you agree?"

Vox doesn't want to, but he nods. It hurts, but it's right. Like ripping off a bandaid.

"Good." For a split second, something dark comes over his eyes and his voice ducks low. "A flower cannot bloom in someone else's shadow, after all." Then he's back to his regular wall-to-wall grin. "Recuperate and do endeavor not to destroy my tower. There would be very sticky consequences to such a display, I'm afraid."

Vox holds up mollifying hands and puts on a penitent's face.

"Ah, if only I had a heart in which to feel sympathy," Alastor says wistfully. "Ah well. I bid you adieu, television."

And with that he's gone, whisking out the door and letting it (or perhaps compelling it) shut amiably behind him.

Vox is left in a kitchen that strongly remembers the late '20s—no carpet like the one Vox remembers from his life in the '50s, Satan help us, but still the eyesore of bare wood everywhere—with a wireless crooning at him from the countertop. Next to the sugar tin, he notes in awe. And a bigger one for flour. Holy fuck. This place is too pure for him. He might burst into flames at any moment, if his soul wasn't already burning in hell.

He turns his attention to the radio. The song is vaguely familiar, something about love, the same old thing. Vox wonders why none of the electronica he's helped produce has been about love, only lust and killing. Love isn't badass, he supposes. People don't feel cool about being in love. Love doesn't feel like an advantage over others, it feels like what it is: a weakness. Especially if it's unrequited.

Does Val love him?

You're not tuned properly, he thinks to the radio when some static crackles through. He reaches for it, but hesitates. Will he damage it? What if he can't control his voltage and it explodes? Starts a fire? How would he possibly put a fire out? What is he going to do, stop/drop/roll? Stop/drop/melt his face off, more like.

Vox leaves the radio untouched and simply listens. One song finds its end and another starts, a swinging reel. Vox pictures feet tap-tap-tapping under swirling skirts and wide-legged trousers, snapping suspenders, trumpets bright as flashing teeth. Before his time, but smack-dab within Alastor's. Did the deer ever dance like that? Did he ever clasp fingers with someone, put a hand on a waist, let loose and surrender to the music?

No one asked you either, huh?

Or maybe Alastor was a wallflower like him. Vox knows all about watching.

He's sure he'd be clumsy as hell if he tried to dance now. The closest he's come in recent memory was little more than grinding with Val to his own supplied music, and even then that could hardly be called music since it was just a pounding beat with occasional erotic mouth sounds. It wasn't bad, but . . .

A sigh gusts from his vents. He wishes he could rest his chin on his forearms and daydream. His biology won't allow for that. He could always lay his screen facedown on the table but he doesn't want to put any pressure on it while it's healing. He dabs at it again with the tip of a claw and startles when a spark shoots out as if chiding him. A watched pot never boils.

He considers exploring the tower but doesn't recall Alastor inviting him to do so. He doesn't like the idea of testing the limits of his hospitality. But man, sitting here all day long with nothing to do . . .

The radio crackles again, this time warping the words and spewing a horrible analog blabber of discordance. Not just tuned incorrectly, then. Experiencing technical difficulties.

Vox stands, gently picks up the radio, and waits.

No explosions.

No Alastor breaking down the door with dial-eyes.

Just calm quiet.

Vox rotates the device in his hand. It's been a long, long time since he worked with technology made of wood. But he can still feel something there, a connection. There's a spark in there, no doubt some form of ancient induction coil and interrupter. The denizens of hell, Alastor, and even Vox himself have gotten endless mileage out of the rivalry between video and radio, but maybe that's wrong. It's all technology. It all relies on a spark.

And this is where he started all those decades ago. He wasn't blue light and virtual reality when he was alive. He was a boy, too small to play sports and too quiet to be asked to dance, making machines.

"Oxxk@y," he says, glitching right along with the radio. "LeT's sz3E h0w I c_an heLp."

Much to the surprise of the more defeating voices in the back of Vox's head, Alastor does return. Each day he goes and each day he comes back and routine swiftly settles. Each morning they sit at the table, listening to the radio over tea and light breakfast. Then Alastor leaves. Occasionally he shows up again at noon for some lunch before heading out for more gallivanting. Evening finds them in the sitting area, Alastor's hands busy with some appallingly domestic activity like needlework or, on the best nights, a deck of cards. It's been years since Vox played anything but stud, but he quickly remembers how to enjoy hearts, spades, and Alastor's favorite, gin rummy. They don't bet anything, just play for the fun of it, and at last Vox feels the creeping delight of wholesome competition, of friendly taunting, of genuine laughter. His claws are clumsier than Alastor's gloved fingers but there is never any sign of impatience. Prolonging your inevitable defeat, are we? I must say, martyrdom is rather gauche when worn with pinstripe. Then, if Vox's strategy paid off or he just got lucky and Alastor lost, there was no spectacle. Ah, well, a gentleman will always take a reminder to be humble. After all, what is failure but a whetstone to a blade? Vox finds himself wishing he could bottle up these words, spin them into gilded thread, forge them into a suit of armor to guard the vulnerable parts of himself.

He is always listening to him. During meals, he simply sits, watches, and listens. Valentino often scowled at him, told him to quit staring at me while I'm eating, pervert. (And yes, this is the same man who once poured strawberry syrup all over Vox's chest and then yelled at him for overreacting when some of it dripped into a vent and had him choking for the next half hour.) But Vox has no lascivious intent. He watches to live vicariously through those who can still eat, to try and remember one of the simplest joys of his previous life.

One day Alastor notices this attention and sets down his fork. "Tell me, are you unable to taste at all?"

Vox sits back in his chair after noticing how far forward he'd been leaning, rapt by Alastor's enjoyment of his dessert. "Uh. Nx0."

"Hmmm." Alastor takes a final bite, brushes his mouth clear of crumbs with a napkin, and gazes thoughtfully into the middle distance. "I'm sure you recall red velvet cake in its adolescence—in your adolescence, indeed. But it was after my time, though I do enjoy its aesthetic and of course its smoky sweetness. No, I grew up with beignets. Ah, the bliss of powdered sugar, hm? But not just a sprinkling, a pure blizzard of the stuff. You'll want them fresh from the oven, crisp on the outside and feathery on the inside. Melt in your mouth! And a cup of café au lait to wash them down, though if you're using chicory it's best to end with one last taste of sugar. With life and with dessert one must have the proper balance of bitter and sweet. I like my coffee strong, of course, strong enough to stand a spoon in it, I always said!"

Vox can't help it. He doesn't know what his face looks like and he doesn't care. "TeLl m/e m0rE."

Alastor's eyes slide to him and a grin slowly spreads. "Well. I am nothing if not an entertainer, eh?"

And he indulges him. Their conversations in the little kitchen are lush with descriptions of cheese-strung muffaletta, gleaming king cake, steaming crawfish, thick gumbo and rice, and of course the iconic jambalaya. If Vox had a mouth to water, it would be enough to flood this whole tower. At the end of each story, Vox always tries to find it in him to thank Alastor, but the radio demon always cuts him off, changes the subject or leaves for another bout of haunting the city streets. Vox doesn't know why Alastor does what he does, but he quickly comes to understand that he hates to be begged and, even more, he hates to be thanked.

After the first week, Vox feels himself getting braver. Not because he's healed—far from it, a large crack is still unfilled on his screen—but because of Alastor's kindness. He doesn't think the radio demon will kick him out for asking a question. So one evening after the supper dishes are done he uses his voice, such as it is. "Cx-cxouLd I h@ve a T_0uR?"

Alastor blinks. "Do you mean to tell me, television, that you have sat here in this kitchen all day in my absence?"

Vox shuffles his stance a bit, unsettled. Alastor hasn't called him television in a few days. It shouldn't hurt, and it doesn't really, just some unwanted friction. "Sz0me/tim3zs I s_IT 0n tHe c-czoUch."

Alastor stares at him for a long moment, brow furrowed. He's still smiling, but it's only faintly amused, curled with confusion. "May I ask why? And, more to the point, what exactly do you do all day?"

Vox feels suddenly afraid to admit that he has tampered with Alastor's technology. The radios in the kitchen and sitting area have been fixed, the wiring that caused lightbulbs to flicker during any kind of weather has been improved, and the doorbell even works now, not that anyone would ever be brave enough to turn up and ring it. Vox has actually been hoping to work up the courage to ask Alastor if he has any radio junk lying around, bits and pieces he could tinker with, but now he's not sure if that's a good idea. So far he's been doing a good job of barely existing, maybe he shouldn't push his luck. Val taught him to lie low and shut up, why has he forgotten his training?

Alastor holds up a hand as if to interrupt a long rant, though Vox hasn't said a word. "Please allow me to detract those questions. I can answer the first; I didn't exactly offer up my premises to you, did I? No. I appreciate your respect for my privacy and I shall attempt to make up for my lapse in respecting yours just now. Your activities are none of my business."

It takes Vox a minute to comprehend this. He's not in trouble? He's not in trouble. His vents heave a sigh of relief before he can stifle it and he hopes to Satan that Alastor just thinks it's a machine thing.

A faint twitch to his lips is the only indication Alastor gives of hearing the noisy gust of air. "Well. If all is copacetic, I think I can spare a moment or two for a grand tour."

Up the spiraling stairs they go. Vox doesn't think too hard about the construction; the development of most structures in hell is a blur between magic and labor that trying to crystallize would take far more time than it's worth. Still, he does wonder if this tower is impossible. It only takes them a minute of climbing to reach a floor with large windows that overlook the surrounding forest and spy on the distant city. Even if they had run full-tilt up that staircase, there's no way they could be more than halfway to the top.

"Penny for your thoughts," Alastor says, flipping a coin in Vox's direction.

Vox catches it and turns it over on his palm. One side shows Alastor's grin engraved in the bronze; the other Vox's screen, unbroken and devious. A neat trick, an impressively subtle display of power. Perhaps this in itself is the answer, but Vox asks anyway since he was prompted. "Yxou're @LTeriNg thizs plaC3."

Alastor's smile widens, pleased. "Why, yes, indeed. I keep what rooms I need at any given time and remove those I don't. It wouldn't make sense for them to sit and collect dust. And I would often find myself troubled by screams while steeping my tea, which really detracts from the air of relaxation. Better to tuck other projects aside so as not to be distracted. They do warn not to take your work home!"

Vox glances around this observation room. There are more quaint little paintings on the walls. Small cushioned divans sit beneath each window. The floor is polished wood; Vox can see both their reflections in the sheen. The tower is, aside from the gentle wafting hum of the radio always playing downstairs, silent. Are there victims in here somewhere, fools who made deals they couldn't fulfill, creatures who dared defy the radio demon?

Alastor peers closely at Vox, hands folded behind his back. In just shirt and vest, without his ragged outer coat, he looks so much more . . . touchable. "We had established, I thought," he says rather softly, "that we are both monsters."

Vox recalls the earliest years, before he had even spoken to Alastor, back when it was a pure, simple hatred he held for him. I hate that fucking radio. A thief, stealing viewers and attention and therefore power. A killer, ending lives seemingly at random and broadcasting this depravity to the other denizens of hell. At the time, Vox considered it garish, obscene, evil. Much worse than the things he and Val got up to, obviously. They didn't go around killing people (much). They ran whores and sold products, services, memberships. They just wanted profit, who could blame them for that? They could be trusted, or at least, they could be trusted to do what would make them money. Alastor, on the other hand, was unpredictable. Maybe even unknowable.

But then, over the years, Vox did get to know him. They fought their battles, always ending in a draw. Two apex predators in the wild: circling, circling, snarling and roaring, but never getting too close. To be within range of the other's throat was to bare your own and neither would risk it. And in that time, that tense edging ceasefire, they spoke. Vox succumbed to Alastor's way of weaving words. He couldn't kill him. Then what would he listen to?

And in recent times, living in Val's cage . . . Alastor is the light at the end of the tunnel.

Could this be a misplaced sentiment? After all this time, after starting to trust—

"Perhaps it would comfort you to know," Alastor tells him, "that I have recently refined my diet."

Vox stares at him.

Alastor walks over to one of the windows, gazing out toward the red smog. "I will admit to trying every flavor once. It's only fair, really. What is it they say? You've said it before, in fact. Don't knock it 'til you try it? Quite. In life, I had a preference for the soft ones. The thrill of opportunity down a quiet country road. Someone down on their luck. Someone, unfortunately, easily taken advantage of. But down here, things are very different. The types on offer have a strict contrast in taste and I find myself preferring the bitter. The hardened, the cruel." He glances over his shoulder at Vox, something darkly familiar in his eyes. "The ones taking advantage of the soft."

A cold droplet of fear trickles in.

Alastor must see it in his face because he adds, "Not you. As I've said, it's beneath me to harm you in this state. That would be taking an advantage. No. I've moved on. Brighter pastures! So rest, perhaps, assured that those I take from back alleys and basements are no one that will be missed. I make sure of that." He winks, a rather Vox-like gesture. "You didn't think my strolls were merely for my constitution, did you?"

Vox pictures it: the most terrifying smile in hell prowling its streets to weed out the truly sick, twisted, and evil. Frightening passersby while making life safer for them behind their backs. Never to be sought out. Never to be thanked.

"The scariest monsters," Alastor remarks, "are those who scare other monsters, I think."

Val's dripping smile flashes in his mind—along with Vox himself, cowering beneath it.

"I tH1nk szo, t0o," Vox says.

Halfway down the staircase, Alastor pauses. "You know, a thought occurs."

Vox stands awkwardly on the step behind him. He's never been taller than Alastor before but, for some reason, it doesn't feel right. "Wh@t?"

"Well, perhaps I could arrange a room somewhere along here for you. To save the couch cushions from a rectangular imprint. And to give you somewhere else to ramble about so you're not so much like a lost puppy in the kitchen." Alastor gives an odd gesture as if searching for something to do with his hand; his microphone appears in it and he thumps it to the step at his side, grounded. "Of course, if it's not something you're interested—"

"Nx-Nz-No," Vox says, glitching in his haste, "I w0uLd li_ke thaT."

Alastor smiles.

Alastor doesn't say another word about Vox's room and neither does Vox. At first it's just the basics, a bed (not too hard, not too soft) and a window and a desk. Then, one morning when Alastor is on his way out the door, Vox blurts it out. Is there any chance there are spare parts or old radios kicking around this place and, if so, would Alastor mind if Vox repurposed them? Alastor had only shown brief surprise before snapping his fingers and saying Help yourself! before striding out with a chipper hum. Vox went upstairs to find his room cluttered with mismatched bits, chunks, even piles of stuff. An antiquer's wet dream if they weren't in such disarray. Upon closer inspection, Vox finds some of them torn by what appear to be claw marks, others spattered with something dark, dried black-brown. Vox goes searching under the kitchen cabinet and finds a bottle of polish. Work that should feel beneath him instead cues a release of satisfaction. The polish stains his microfiber cloth, but he doesn't mind. The only thing that can get on him here is fine dust, the inevitable specks of the natural world. That, he can live with. A far less painful proof that he takes up space, that he is alive.

As the smaller fractures in his screen seal, Vox's room becomes populated with more rustic creation. He makes tiny cars with washer wheels, quartz-eyed wind-up animals, accidentally smokes himself out with the noxious fumes of a failed attempt at welding with the electricity arcing from his claws. Things that can be restored to more or less their previous state remain; he gains his own radio which he tunes until it plays the same station as the ones downstairs. For a split second he mourns the lack of modern tech and his inability to connect this radio to the pop music streaming from the city, but he deletes the idea. After all, his phone could connect to it if he hadn't put it on airplane mode before his agonized exodus. In two weeks he's only forgotten not to check it a few times, which he prides himself on. Refreshing to be able to go five seconds without it buzzing or chiming. He wonders how many missed messages and calls would blow it up if he turned the service back on. No, he tells himself. That's not healing.

One day, the first of a true rain, Alastor doesn't go for any strolls. After breakfast they simply go to the sitting room, Alastor sparking a fire to the hearth with a flick of the wrist, Vox torn between the nostalgia of real fire and the nervousness he feels around it now. Water, fire, earth—the only element kind to him now is air, cooling him and cleaning him when used correctly. And electricity, he supposes, but that's not one of the big four. He glances out the rain-streaked window. Will it thunder and lightning? What would happen to him if he perched atop this tower and let himself be struck? He imagines the power of it, stuff of legends, harnessing a storm and unleashing his fury until nothing else remains. He imagines turning black, corroded and charred, and dropping to a hideous death.

Alastor's humming lulls. Vox looks over at him, but the radio demon's attention is on the phone in his hand. Vox didn't even notice he took it out of his pocket. Self-soothing, or just a learned response. If he's feeling anxious, he must be waiting for Val to get a hold of him.

When Alastor notices him looking he doesn't pretend to look away and instead intensifies his suspicion, side-eying the device. Vox has to laugh. "It w0n't bi_te."

Alstor arches an if you say so eyebrow. "I do believe I shall never understand the appeal."

Vox moves to the other end of the couch, effectively sitting beside Alastor—or as close as he can get with himself on the couch and Alastor in his rocking chair. He tilts his phone so Alastor can see the screen. "TheR3's szomething on iT for eVer/yone. 1T can pl@y muszic."

Alastor scoffs. "Not real music. No music of any value."

Vox decides not to point out that it can play what Alastor considers music; even he will admit that without the cracks and pops of analog, of radio and record, it's not the same. "W3ll, it caN pLay ga_mes too."

"Games," Alastor echoes, dubious. "Your idea of entertainment, hm?"

"I deszi-igned some 0F th3m," he admits. He taps the simplest one he can find and demonstrates how it's played. "Headsz fly @t tHe scr33n and yoU t_ap to sLice 'em."

"I've never seen a skull, demon or otherwise, burst into such viscera," Alastor remarks. "Perhaps you should have consulted someone with more experience when creating this. It's not very realistic. And the foley work sounds as though you just stabbed a watermelon and then squeezed a tube of toothpaste."

"JuSzt taP the sCreen," Vox says.

And, to his amazement, Alastor does. At first he does it with disgust, his other fingers curled as if he might catch the plague of cell phone. Then Vox has a round and gets a higher score and it's all-out war. Then, when Alastor still doesn't have the hand-eye coordination to beat Vox (and, as he is quick to point out, a severe deficit in practice), they try other games. The platformer is fun but frustrating to finesse in later levels and Alastor proves completely (and hilariously, though Vox is gallant enough to stifle his giggles) unable to move and look at the same time in an FPS. His favorite turns out to be the slow-paced puzzle game that demands thought in the moment as well as in the long-run. It's probably Vox's least popular game, but there's a part of him that truly enjoys the chess-like ministrations of strategy. They shift from opponents to allies, taking it in turns: Vox handles the equations, Alastor the linguistics, and before either of them know it the day has passed and they are the highest on the leaderboard at the end of level five. The option to enter a name is greyed out, however. Connect to Vogitech Network.

"Not everything needs to be shared," Alastor remarks, voice still light.

Vox feels light too. He has sorely missed this kind of levity, even in previous conversations with Alastor. To be able to sit with someone and share laughter, the most basic human joy . . . At last, his smile doesn't feel like an imitation.

"PRess thaT 0ne," Vox says, pointing.

"It's a camera," Alastor says, but presses it anyway. "I do know what a polaroid looks like. And I've never particularly cared for myself in photographs. The picture show is your realm of expertise, if I'm not mistaken."

Vox shrugs. "Th@t's oKay. Y0u don't haVe to do anYthiNg y0u don't waNT to d0."

Alastor cocks his head a little; his attention sharpens but his eyes stay soft, as warm and dangerous as the flames in the fireplace.

Vox feels seen.

It's vulnerable.

It's horrifying.

It's safety.

It's a sniper's red dot on his chest.

It's Alastor's eyes, asking:

When was the last time someone told you that?

Vox can't speak.

At length, Alastor offers the phone back. "Perhaps you could snap a photograph of the tower at dusk. That is a sight worth capturing. And wouldn't you know it, the rain has stopped just in time!"

Back into the spring of things, the relieved return of Alastor's exuberance, except the little voice at the back of it all wondering if Alastor covers pain with a grin just like Vox does. Caught in those gleaming eyes, Vox never noticed the pink light through the windows. He wonders what he would notice, with the radio demon enchanting him like this. Vox has always been a watcher, but never before has he so struggled to look away.

"G00d idea," Vox says, air shuddering through his vents.

Out they go, leaving silvered footsteps in the wet grass, and walk backward until they can get an adequate view. The sun dips lower, blazing through the steel of the radio mast, lighting the whole sky blood-red. Alastor reaches up, grasping Vox's wrists to frame the tower properly. "There," he says, "why, there, isn't that the cat's pajamas!"

Vox doesn't even know what to focus on first: the touch of their hands, the fact that he didn't flinch, the closeness, the cat's pajamas, or just this, the smallest thing, the feathered brush of Alastor's tufty ear against the edge of Vox's screen.

It tickles.

Only after he's in bed, checking the picture on his phone, does he actually appreciate the colors; when Alastor was watching the sunset, reciting some song or poem or something from his day (when the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud/and goes down burning into the gulf below) Vox could only see him, just as red as the sky but more splendid, more breathtaking, even more vibrantly, viciously alive.

"It's nice to h@ve a bReak," Vox finds himself saying.

They're sitting in the garden on flimsy wicker chairs, basking in the glow of another red evening. Alastor sits with an ankle on the other knee, face tipped back to soak in the fading sunlight. Vox is driven to distraction by the pose. From anyone else it would simply be casual, relaxed, a sign of trust—and it is. But for whatever reason it also looks provocative in a way Vox couldn't describe if he tried.

He's been attempting to avoid these stirring feelings. It's one thing to be housed by the radio demon, to have a ceasefire with him, even to form an alliance. But these things his mind and body are telling him . . . they are such wickedly sweet lies. He can't want Alastor. It wouldn't be returned. And what could he do about it, even if it was? He doesn't have what's required. He's not enough for Val, for Alastor, or anyone else.

His desire for the radio demon was a lot easier to stomach when it was blood he was lusting after.

"I couldn't agree more," Alastor says, closing his eyes. More trust, or content with the knowledge that Vox won't try to hurt him in his weakened state? Maybe those are the same thing. "But I must admit, it's odd to be talking about . . . well, regular things with you. It's interesting to learn you have the capacity."

"I'm Less macHine than I l00k," Vox tells him, and actually believes it.

"So I'm learning," Alastor says without opening his eyes. "It is a refreshing change of pace, this shift of ours from insults to, hm, this. And of course it is a blessing to simply share a silence. Very few people can appreciate that, perhaps us least of all. But when you're the one making the noise, you notice all the more when it stops."

Vox is left hanging on that word, but Alastor doesn't rescue him. Weeks ago, he would have dreaded this, the idea of sitting in nature without a phone, a task, anything to keep him from his thoughts. But sitting here in the last of the warmth with Alastor, he doesn't let dark thoughts creep in. He watches the deer breathe in, breathe out, ears twitching ever so slightly as he listens. Vox sits back a bit with a satisfying creak of his chair and casts out his senses.

Unseen birds chirp in the surrounding trees. Insects hiss, rattle, sing. Leaves whisper amongst themselves. Faint rustlings: squirrels, rabbits, maybe even deer? Vox has never seen wild animals in hell, has never been out in the wilderness long enough. Would an animal even trust him, technology, enough to approach? Alastor did, he thinks, and almost chuckles to himself. He doesn't doubt he would attract bugs if he stayed out here in the dark. Moths to flame.

Alastor glances at him and narrows his eyes, but he waits until Vox's screen has stopped showing sound waves to say, "Are you recording this?"

By way of response, Vox plays back the naturescape they just listened to. It's a bit warped, skips and glitches slightly, but otherwise high definition.

Alastor shakes his head. "Only you would think to immortalize serenity. What will you do with it, then, make it into a cynical knockoff?"

Actually, he certainly could upload a series of tracks like this and sell them as sleep aids or meditation music. Granted, there's not a huge market for that kind of thing in hell—they are sinners, not generally the tree-hugging sort—but he can sell anything. Why Val thinks Vox2.0 can do what he does without a voice is beyond him.

Another nice change: when he thinks about Vox2.0 now, he does it not with sadness or shame, but with anger.

"No," Vox says. "Som3Times I keeP things juszt For me. It's been a whiLe, thouGH. I k1nda foRgot I c0uld . . . do things for my_self."

Alastor doesn't say anything, just looks at him. It's the same sort of patience he gave him the first day, sitting at the table, waiting for Vox to be ready to talk about it. Never asking or even implying what it is, but also informing Vox that he is fully aware there is an it behind that broken screen. Now, Alastor's patience has an edge. He's searching when he looks at Vox, imploring him to do the same. Find your courage, says Alastor's gaze. Say aloud the words you're afraid to think.

Vox again thinks of Val, Vox2.0, the legacy he left behind. Does anyone suspect anything after weeks with this new speechless TV? A mascot. Does Val describe the products? Who's writing the scripts? Maybe Vox2.0 has advanced enough to do that too. Who knows, maybe by now he's already creating new and improved Vogitech products. Maybe he's making the company even more money than Vox did. He pictures all those screens lining the data center walls, red-lined graphs climbing and climbing as ratings and profits skyrocket. He pictures Valentino grinning through it all, drooling over his beloved android, getting more spoiled than ever before. Greedy, greedy, greedy bastard.

And then he hears Val's voice.

Oh yeah? You think you're better than me?

Delete. Delete. Abort. No.

Too late.

He's suddenly above himself, looking down on his body and Alastor's. This hasn't happened in months. He thought he'd gotten over it. He's researched it, obviously, private searches on Voogle that were immediately scrubbed. The keywords flash in his memory. Trauma. Extreme stress. Dissociation. Coping. Overwhelmed. He feels no sensation, no connection to his motionless body. He can only watch, like Alastor, as his grin flickers away, replaced by a video he recorded last year.

Valentino glares down at the camera, at Vox's face. His eyes are furious slits behind his tinted glasses. No, please, I'm dying to hear it. Tell me what makes you so much better than me.

Here is Vox's voice, quiet, muffled by reverb or interference or whatever he wasn't focused enough to filter out at the time. I didn't say that, Val. But I told you when I signed that contract. I don't sell people. And I don't have any interest in punishing them for not doing something they're uncomfortable with. That's your business.

A mistake.

The image of Val jolts then recenters from a higher angle; Vox is held aloft by the hand around his throat. Thanks for painting such an ugly picture of me, Voxxy. I never knew you thought I was so awful. Mean ol' Val, bruising up poor little whores. Innocents down on their luck, is that what you think they are? The video flickers as Vox loses consciousness. Well, let me tell you something, you little fucking sugar plum. They signed contracts just like you did. Every single one of you knew what you were getting into. I'm not punishing anyone. Another of Val's hands rises into frame, curled into a fist. I'm giving you what you fuckin' asked for.

The screen goes black, but there's still the punch of broken glass through the microphone before the audio cuts out as well.

And then Vox is back in his body again, looking out at an Alastor whose face is worse than disturbed: it's utterly blank. Shock? Indifference? It's impossible to tell. Vox wants nothing more than to get up, run up to his room, or maybe just flee back to the city. His face isn't healed, but what's the difference? He's a lost cause anyway. He's still showing reruns for fuck's sake.

The silence, outside of the bird sounds, drives Vox to speak. "Y0u h@d to know. No SUrprise. IT's been yEArs. Nothing I c0uld do. You tak3 whaT you get. I'm weaKeR than—"

"No," Alastor cuts in, sharp. Now it's clear: the blankness on his face is barely contained anger, the intensity of a predator right before the strike. "You are not weaker. I refuse to believe that."

Vox can only stare at him. He didn't have the strength to fight Val and he doesn't have the strength to argue with Alastor either. He just wants this to be over. He wants to be free of the memories in his head, the videos he's trapped them in. But without that, what is he? He's been cut down to nothing. He is nothing but scar tissue and plastic. He will never bend. He was built to break.

Alastor seems to see this exhaustion in him. His brow lowers on his eyes and, all at once, he stands, microphone in hand. His voice is not quite as full as when he broadcasts, but no doubt demons on the outskirts of the city feel a prickle over their skin, a sense that somewhere someone powerful is righteously pissed off.

"He cannot be stronger than you. He is a lecherous leech. He is a mere purveyor of perversion. There are countless who have no interest in what he sells. His power comes from one particular brand of desire. He is limited by this. I am far from the only one who would not struggle to say no to him. A moth can only grow so large before his wings can no longer carry him out of harm's way." Alastor points his microphone at Vox. He feels the low rumble, the recognition of it by his own interior mic. "There is nothing more powerful than media. Agree or disagree though they might, people will always listen and watch us. They seek us out, desperate to be entertained, and we answer them. We are the smiles you see and the thoughts you think. We are the very air you breathe, the blood in your veins, the dreams haunting your wake. We are everything. We are kings."

Slowly, Vox asks his body to stand. It does, the strength immediately found and utilized. Alastor's words match the beat of his heart, thrumming through his veins like electric adrenaline. He almost trembles with it, but he is grounded. In the fading light of sunset, Vox's blue light grin is a weapon. Alastor's fangs glisten in the glow.

For the first time in a long time, he remembers what power feels like.

A week later, Vox wakes up feeling rested. He hums along with the radio in the kitchen as he dries the dishes Alastor has just washed. Alastor's smile seems to linger a bit more than usual, but Vox doesn't ask why. He just smiles back, feeling something fuzzy in his chest, a fine-petalled flower preparing to blossom. Potential.

He finishes up his latest wind-up creature and sets them all, two dozen, waddling and snapping and skipping across the floor of his room. Indulgent and silly, he stomps about with them, imagining himself a giant among miniatures. Then he winds them up again and provides stock sound effects: cheep-cheep-cheep for the chicks, snuffles for the pig whose corkscrew tail spins, arf! arf! for the tiny terrier, and a ludicrously loud trumpet for the elephant that he follows with canned laughter to make amusement crackle in his chest.

Only when he's about to take a picture of his animals does he realize why he feels this good. There on his phone screen, before he can flip the camera, is his face. At long last, after over a month, he is whole again.

I did it, he thinks. No robots performed surgery. He healed himself, by himself. His body is not made for breaking. No. He is made for survival.

When Alastor walks in the door that evening, Vox has supper already on the table, along with a cup of coffee that he hopes isn't too strong because he has no powdered sugar to go with. The radio demon surveys the scene, a surprised smile slowly spreading. "Well, well. What might all this be?"

Vox is too happy for posturing. He spreads his arms wide. "I'm all better, baby."

Alastor sits down at the chair Vox pulls out for him. "Well," he says, raising his coffee cup in cheers, "then we shall celebrate."

Celebration looks like sharing laughter over Vox's successes and (many) failures in capturing the intricacies of jambalaya. Celebration looks like Vox sneaking a bit of suds from the sink during dishwashing and dabbing it onto Alastor's antlers so he's decorated like a Christmas reindeer. Celebration looks like Alastor returning the favor by taking his coat off and hanging it on a corner of Vox's screen. Celebration looks like them relocating to the sitting room and cranking the radio and the very first song reaching into Vox's chest and teasing at that budding blossom. The opening of the song is long enough that Vox has the name on the tip of his tongue—he has heard it so many times, he can feel it—but he doesn't need to remember because the first words are coming.

Say, it's only a paper moon

Sailing over a cardboard sea

But it wouldn't be make-believe

If you believed in me

"1933," Alastor notes, perhaps sensing the shift in Vox's emotion. "One of the original recordings."

He remembers. When he was alive, girls and boys alike crooned this song to him, one of his favorites that he shared again and again with people he thought loved him. But it was never real. The girls tired of their charity case, considered him hopeless because he cared more about talking to them than pushing up their skirts in the back of his father's car. The boys tired of their risk-taking, claimed it just wasn't worth it considering how little they got out of him anyway. Just like the song: those people were cardboard, muslin, nothing substantial enough to weather any real storms.

And now here he is, cut neatly out of Valentino's life, complete rock bottom. Could he go crawling back? Of course. Will he? He's so afraid he will. He's so afraid he won't. He has tasted power again, has gotten drunk on happiness today. Isn't this enough? Or is he just as greedy as the man who hurt him? Come to think of it, why else would he have gotten himself into this mess?

Alastor breaks his reverie by offering a hand. His eyes are knowing but bright, too, refusing to let Vox's darkness overcome his newfound light. "Would you like to dance, my dear television?"

My dear. My dear. Vox's heart weeps. Ask me again a thousand times. He twines their fingers. "Yes."

Alastor adjusts the grip and, when Vox doesn't move, tuts and places one of Vox's hands on his waist. "I thought perhaps you should lead."

Vox doesn't hide his shock. He has never touched Alastor like this. Two layers of clothing, waistcoat and shirt, and then beneath that, skin, and then beneath that . . . life. Stubborn, arrogant, ferocious life. "I'm not complaining, but why?"

"Well," Alastor says as they slowly sway and spin to the melody, "I would prefer you to remain in the room rather than step on my feet."

Vox's previous assumption was correct: trying to emulate the fluid motions of dance without practise prompts an almost mechanical clumsiness. "Thank you. Sorry."

Alastor narrows his eyes, but not without amusement. "I asked you to dance, not repent."

Without your love

It's a honky-tonk parade

Without your love

It's a melody played

In a penny arcade

Alastor rests his head on Vox's shoulder.

Breath catches in Vox's vents and he works not to jolt. Oh fuck me, don't electrocute him, don't, whatever you do. He thinks he sees the hint of a smile at the edge of Alastor's face, but he can't see well enough to say for sure. Even stiffer, he rotates them around the room until he feels the faint pressure of Alastor's hand trailing down from his other shoulder, over the blade, down his spine to rest at the small of his back. A soothe, he realizes only when he notices his body has calmed with the touch.

It's a Barnum and Bailey world

Just as hollow as it can be

But it wouldn't be make-believe

If you believed in me.

A slight crackle from the radio. One of Alastor's ears flicks, tickling Vox's screen again, and the end of the song brings them to silence. Uncertain, Vox lets them sway to a halt. They stand there in the middle of the sitting room, the fireplace crackling, the paintings observing, the couch and rocking chair inviting them for another evening of friendship.

"Perhaps—" Alastor has to stop himself when static creeps in beneath his voice. He clears his throat and tries again, his voice softer than Vox has ever heard it. "Perhaps you might like to come up with me to my bedroom. I've realized I never did complete your grand tour."

Vox's heart almost stops. This is happening. This is happening.

"Okay," he says.

Neither of them will ever quite remember how it starts, but that doesn't really matter anyway. The spark is of vital importance when laying blame, but if it is in a barren land, a site in need of rebirth through ashes, no one cares about what set off the flames. They only care about the healing heat of the forest fire.

This is the forest fire.

They remove no clothing. They don't urge, don't battle, don't dominate.

They don't speak, at first, and the intensity burns through Vox.

They overlap loosely, then tangle like wiring.

Alastor's hands trace every detail of him, so careful, so respectful: his thighs, his abdomen, his chest. They rise from his shoulders but Vox doesn't have to say it; he tenses only slightly and Alastor retracts, knowing not to touch his face.

Vox's hands are mirrors but such starving mirrors. They adore his antlers, his hair, the fluff of his ears. Then, braver, they smooth over his arms, his shoulders, down his back and to his ass. They hesitate here, until Alastor hisses a single exhale of amusement and rises up onto his knees, straddling him. He unbuttons his waistcoat, letting it fall to the floor, then slips off his suspenders.

For the first time, Vox meets his gaze. Before he can name that complicated look in those red eyes, Vox's vents heave, chugging overheated air. He has no choice but to sit up as well, shrugging out of his coat, opening his shirt, baring the vents along his ribs and breathing heavily to lower his temperature.

Now Alastor smirks. "Exactly how long have you been waiting for this?"

Vox can't look away from him. The teasing yet vulnerable light in his eyes, the confidence yet shyness of his body language, and the nervous yet protective set to his brow. Vox doesn't feel owned, beneath him, but covered. Guarded. He hopes Alastor feels similarly, and then he considers what the radio demon might be afraid of and knows how he can make it so.

"All of my afterlife, honey," he tells him, smiling. "But you don't have to do this for me."

A shot of relief, but Alastor doesn't move away. He gets closer. "You've already said so. Neither of us have to do anything we don't want to do, hm?" He trails the smooth backs of his claws down Vox's chest and he shudders. It tickles. After so long, so many attempts, at last: sensation. "It isn't about lust, I hope you understand. Just . . ." He delicately avoids the edges of Vox's vents and Vox has the strongest sense that Alastor is holding his heart in his hand. "An exploration. A truce. A . . ."

"Celebration," Vox finishes.

Alastor smiles, a little one, a private one. "Yes, indeed."

The forest fire burns not like destruction, now, but like stabilization. Like the warmth of the hearth. Providing life, safety, comfort. They are dancing, just lying down. They are laughing, just without sound. They are playing cards, but no one needs to win or lose.

A song, after all, is not about what happens at the end.

Their fingers venture lower. Vox delights in the fluff of Alastor's tail. Alastor admires the simple purity of Vox's body.

The forest fire cools. The embers glow gently in the dark.

Vox keeps his arms around Alastor even after the deer goes limp. He hums through his slumber, faint snatches of minor key. An unfamiliar feeling creeps over Vox like the slowest tidal wave. Not exhaustion nor pain, just coziness. He is safe here. He is warm here. He relishes the closeness and trust Alastor has allowed him, the most precious gift from this of all sinners. He has never experienced touch that was about appreciation, not destination. The flower has bloomed and it is beautiful.

Vox drifts off to sleep, for once in his life completely content.

The next morning, Alastor wakes first.

He remembers immediately, because he dreamt of electric touches and whirring fans, the gentle standby of his television set.

His—

Oh, dear. Yes, it really is that bad.

Other people have never mattered to him. Other people have never been a weakness.

This past month has been a most treacherous endeavor.

Alastor does not want to discuss what happened last night. Not right now, not so soon. Maybe never. It's bad enough that it happened, but there's something even more vulnerable about talking on it, putting it to words. Drawing attention to how he allowed himself to be defenseless. Spotlighting just how much he enjoyed it.

Gingerly, Alastor extracts himself from Vox's arms. They fall limp to the mattress. He is fast asleep—and, when Alastor risks a glance at his screen, he realizes just how terrible all this truly is.

He will admit he has peeked in on Vox a few times in his new bedroom. To check on him, he justified it, to ensure he is not stuck in his reruns or having any sort of difficulty. Not that he is invalid, and not that Alastor is his nursemaid as he said what feels like years ago, but just to make sure. And every time, Vox was asleep. A deep sleeper, it turns out, once he's under. It's been the only time Alastor has ever seen him with a blank screen. He assumed it simply shut off along with Vox's conscious thought, like eyelids drooping shut.

This is incorrect.

Vox's screen has been left on—oh, such hideous trust, such betrayal of comfort despite the beast in his embrace—and it is not his face. Fading images play in dreamy slow motion: the garden at dawn, crowded city streets, fog curling around the radio tower, a herd of tiny wind-up animals on the floor, and so, so many views of Alastor. His smile, his antlers, his hands, his fanciful stride. Alastor watches, prickling with the self-conscious recognition of himself from another's perspective, and remembers. He remembers stopping to admire that particular flower in a park blocks and blocks away from the studio and data center Vox so often frequented. He doesn't remember ever seeing Vox that day, months ago. How many times did he see Alastor and never work up the courage to talk to him? How long has Vox been watching, waiting, wishing? My whole afterlife. Alastor looks away, then back. The screen shows himself as a faint speck of red in the distance, disappearing around the side of a building. What would Valentino do if he knew these were in Vox's head? Alastor pushes the thought away, disgusted, then realizes: these are what Vox held on to. These memories, reminders of something else, reminders that he himself is more than what's become of him. Sometimes I keep things just for me.

Alastor has never seen a kinder view of himself.

He has forgotten what it was like to feel tears ache in his throat.

For someone to care this much . . . to value him this much . . .

My dear television.

He knows it's too late, but maybe there's a chance. Maybe he can save them both from themselves. He doesn't want to ensnare Vox anymore than he already has. He's healed now, seems happier than ever. Is this not an opportunity for him to further improve himself? He is strong again, brave again. He can take back what's been stolen from him and regain his empire. But he can't take Alastor with him.

Good, Alastor thinks.

He swallows.

Good, Alastor thinks again. It's for the better.

Vox has come so far. Now all he needs is one last push.

By the time Vox wakes, Alastor has hidden his surprise behind a smile.

He didn't realize, after all this time, he still has a heart to break.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

this ended up more indulgent than intended - thank you for the lovely comments 3

static (n.)

crackling or hissing on a telephone or radio

Vox wakes to an empty bed.

He sits up slowly, stretching his arms. He looks down at his skin, expecting it to be branded by Alastor's touches last night. He wonders if anyone would look at him and consider him glowing. Probably not—he doesn't have the kind of body that can flush with blood and happy hormones—but he still thinks he feels it. He is new and improved. Anything feels possible.

I slept with the radio demon.

The thought tingles through him. There's implied ownership in it, but the good sort, the kind he wants. It's not I own you. It's you belong to me. With me. Around me. In my life. Stay.

He feels like his heart is three sizes too big. He is a dynamo, an unlimited power supply.

There are no paintings or pictures in Alastor's bedroom, just the same old rustic wallpaper and, surprisingly, a large standing mirror next to the bureau. Vox stands in front of it as he dresses, pinching his suit back into sharp angles. Maybe he could convince Alastor to put up a picture of them in here. Maybe he could set one as the background on his phone. Or his monitors. Or . . .

The faster you fall, he cautions himself, the harder you land.

He doesn't care.

For the first time since he dropped into hell, he doesn't care about a single thing except the man he can hear humming downstairs.

He tunes to the same frequency as he joins him in the kitchen; his synthesized humming isn't exactly musical but he does his best to join in. Alastor stands at the window with his tea but doesn't turn when Vox enters the room. In fact, when Alastor's ear flicks back to acknowledge his entrance, the radio falls silent. Vox does too, uncertain.

"Well," Alastor says at length, "I suppose you'll be leaving today."

Vox stares at him. He can't feel anything yet, won't let himself. "Why?"

Alastor still doesn't turn around, but he laughs once. "Ha! Why, because you're healed, of course. I did say, upon inviting you into my home, that it was a shelter during your convalescence, yes? Nothing more. You've regained your face and seem set to rights now. Downright invigorated, I dare say. I think the demons of our city would be quite impressed by your presence. You're fit to return to them and retake what's been appropriated from you. That's what you've wanted all this time, is it not?"

Vox can't recall what sensation feels like. This isn't fear. This is nothing. He's numb. "But—I thought we were . . ."

Alastor's shoulders seem to stiffen beneath his coat. His words come harder now, something dark crackling through them. "Stop, please, and listen. I don't want either of us to fall into the very dependence that got you here in the first place. What's come between us—Ahem. It's weakness, at the end of the day, when you entrusted me with a place to regain strength. It's wisest to tear this up at the root, before it spreads like a weed."

"That's not what I want." Vox steps closer, within arm's reach. "Listen to me. I was healed yesterday. I could have left. I don't want to go. I want—"

Alastor suddenly whirls, teacup crashing to the floor, microphone in hand and pushed against Vox's chest. He feels the power in it, the insidious vibration of something older and darker than what Vox has on call. The something, Vox knows, that got Alastor to where he is. He's different than the royals and overlords. This shadow is something ancient, awoken. Vox doesn't like to think how that power would compare to his own if they truly clashed.

"I should be apologizing, really," Alastor says. His voice is cordial, despite the static, but his eyes are vacant. Not dials yet, but not him either. He is slipping away, pulling himself behind a veil on purpose. "I should not have let us get under one another's skin. I should not have allowed any of this to happen. I don't ask for forgiveness, only that we both remember this lesson we've learned."

Vox shakes his head. "This isn't something to apologize for. It wasn't a mistake. Alastor, please, just—"

Alastor turns his back again, hands resting on his microphone, ears pricked forward as if something truly fascinating is happening out the window. As if there isn't anyone important behind him. As if he doesn't care. "Do not ever beg for me, Vox," he says, barely audible. "I never want to see you on your knees again."

With all the sadness and anger welling inside him, Vox doesn't even realize this is the first time Alastor has used his name.

"Go," Alastor says. His faint reflection in the glass shows closed eyes. Sorrow? Pain?

Vox considers refusing, imploring him to change his mind. He considers lingering, haunting the forest outside the tower until Alastor has to give him the time of day. But all of these are too much like begging. Too much like making Alastor do something he doesn't want to do. Too much like forcing himself on him.

He steps back. Bits of ceramic crunch under his shoes and he cringes, but he doesn't shy away. He is stronger than that. He won't let it take him down. He won't let anything take him down. He's back, and he's back for blood.

Without another word, Vox leaves.

It's an agreement honored. They're even now. An alliance that will continue on, he doesn't doubt, at least for a while. Maybe someday it'll come down to Vox and Alastor vying for the top, with no one else to come between them or pick up the pieces of what's left. Maybe then they could burn this whole fucking place to ash. It is hell, after all. Thinking he could get a happy ending here should probably be a foregone conclusion.

He turns his phone off airplane mode as he crosses into the city limits. He braces himself, but there's nothing. Not a call nor a text from Valentino or anyone else. Realization comes swiftly: of course there's nothing for him. Vox2.0 has been here the whole time. It's like Vox never left.

Like he never even existed in the first place.

Alastor is painstakingly recreating his shattered teacup, using magical ministrations to distract himself from the despair unfurling within him, when the door opens again. He doesn't look up from his work. He can sense the electricity, is now exceedingly familiar with the scent of heated metal. He sighs. "I do not enjoy repeating my—"

A hand locks around his throat.

Alastor immediately jerks in the grasp, claws slicing impotently across a reinforced exoskeleton, antlers splintering, shadows filling the room like black tar. He has not been caught off-guard in decades. Shame fuels his rage; it takes him a moment to conceptualize the creature that has hold of him.

It is Vox, but it's not.

Bigger. Stronger. And the blue of his grin is frigid. This thing has never been human.

"Ah-ah-ah." Its mouth doesn't move as it speaks, and after a delay Alastor realizes it's not even Vox's voice coming through the speakers. It's the pimp. "Come on, Bambi. You got a brain in there, right? Well, time to use it. Listen good, 'cause we got something in common: I fuckin' hate repeating myself too. You like Vox2.0? He's real smart. Been improving himself while the original sucked your dick for a month. Well, figuratively speaking of course. Anyway. I wouldn't test him, 'cause I see everything he sees. I'll know. And I happen to be a believer in eye for an eye. So, basically, come quietly. Or: you fuck up mine, I'll fuck up yours."

Vox2.0's screen flickers to a security feed showing Vox himself about to walk into his data center, oblivious to what might happen to him. Alastor didn't get a chance to see his face. As his heart begins to pound, he realizes he may never get to see that obnoxiously bright screen again.

The black bleeds from the room, allowing light in again. Alastor's antlers retract. Against every instinct, he lets himself go limp.

Vox2.0's grin widens. "Good boy. Ain't it funny how you can make anybody sing your song. Just takes a little collateral, huh?"

The truth sinks into Alastor, burning him like he swallowed an ember. Vox could have destroyed him long ago. All this time, they've both been lying to themselves. This past month has only sealed the deal.

Valentino's chuckle wafts out, just as toxic as his red smoke. "Bring him to me, baby."

Vox2.0 obeys.

your place. don't make me wait

That's the text Vox received mere minutes ago. He kept an eye out, but he didn't notice anyone familiar-looking in the streets. Not that that means anything; he's sure Val has countless people on his payroll Vox has never and will never be introduced to. At one point, it was equal. At one point, the whores and bruisers and dealers addressed Vox as sir too.

He's taking it back. Just like Alastor said. If he can't have what he truly wants, well—everything else he worked to achieve is a close second.

At first, he doesn't notice anything different. The rows of server towers glow with power and hum with circulating air. The screens along the walls still show the same old streaming analytics and ratings. He walks along the center aisle, thinking perhaps Val is waiting in his office, but stops at the far end of the room. There, beneath the largest monitor in the room, seated in his imported throne, is Valentino, fucking cigarette in his hand despite countless warnings. At his side is Vox2.0, fresh cuts littering his otherwise flawless pinstripe suit. And there, at Val's other side, trapped in a cage of wire alive with electricity, is Alastor. He is feral, hunched and quivering, dial-eyes unfocused, an unhinged radio interference barking and screeching from him as he paces without moving.

"Look at that, baby," Val says, blowing a heart of smoke in Vox's general direction. "You really did outdo yourself with 2.0. He did the one thing you've wanted to do since you fell. Well, other than fuck me." He glances between them all, blue light glinting off his heart-shaped lenses. "What, no laughing sound effects from nobody? Fuck. Tough crowd." He smirks. "Consider this an olive branch, Voxxy. This month gave me some time to think, and I decided I'll give you some more kindness. I'm on a generous streak, what can I say. You're not the best, obviously, but you're still good at what you do. I'll let you come back, work in the background as we discussed, and I'll even let you kill this deer." Val flicks ash at Alastor. "We'll seal the deal in blood, huh, baby? What do you say?"

A chance to be back with Valentino? To live the same life he'd been suffering through before, but worse? To be upstaged by his own creation and brushed under the bed like outdated technology?

Vox steps to the cage. Vox2.0's work, no doubt; Vox would never even consider manipulating electricity like this. It's unstable, even with Vox2.0's advanced skill. Even if he's been improving himself over these weeks, he hasn't had nearly the time Vox has to experiment. He was programmed to control these things, while Vox has voltage in his very veins.

Alastor snaps his head back to look up at Vox. If he recognizes him, he doesn't show it. He's barely recognizable himself. This creature he's being warped into is a far, far cry from the man who asked Vox to dance.

"No."

Valentino says nothing. He hasn't even heard him. Selective hearing, down to the last.

Static crackles in his hands, arcing from the cage to his claws. It's fitting, perhaps, that electricity is not loyal. It simply obeys the strongest conductor, and takes the fastest route to ground. Vox is both of those things.

He draws every ounce of spark from the cage, draining it until there's nothing left to contain Alastor. He straightens out, sparing one grateful glance at Vox before baring his teeth in anything but a smile. Vox savors his wrath and turns to Val, who has wisely elected to stand. "No. I'm staying right where everybody can see me, doll. And if you want to hurt him—"

"What?" Val sneers. "I gotta go through you?"

"Nope." Vox steps aside, clearing the way for his monster. "Through him."

Alastor wastes no time with taunts; he lunges for Valentino. Vox2.0 moves to intercept but Vox is on him. For a moment, it's just pure mayhem of blaring radio, red smoke, inhuman growls, hissed curses, and the deafening feedback loop of Vox and Vox2.0 clashing, clashing, then breaking apart.

Vox's vents chug air, working double time to keep him up and fresh against an opponent nearly twice his size. Twice his strength? No. But he can tell that even the weaknesses he programmed himself have been augmented and improved. Vox2.0 has reached for perfection and he's almost snagged it in his clutches. Even with his power, what can Vox do? Voltage is nothing to them both; it simply arcs and reabsorbs when they try to fry each other.

Unlike the moth and deer, they don't circle. They don't waste the energy. They simply stand, face off, calculating.

It's just an AI, he thinks, but that's the problem. How do you outsmart artificial intelligence?

Several feet away, near the closed door that would lead them upstairs to Vox's office, Alastor backs off from Valentino. It's been quite a while since the pimp had to use anything close to a war form and everything about it, from the claws bursting through Val's satin gloves to the bristling of the fluff around his neck excites Alastor. A far better scent than the fear of prey: the hatred of a fellow predator.

Alastor eyes the blood darkening a patch of Valentino's scarlet coat. He didn't even notice getting in a hit in that first bout, nor did he notice the bite on his own shoulder. More than the pain or heat of his blood, he feels the slime of Val's drool oozing heavily down his arm. Disgusting.

Alastor takes the time to wipe the slobber from his jacket and flicks it on the floor. "I must be honest, I'm not a fan of bullies."

Valentino's third pair of arms bursts from his midsection and he arches his back, glaring down at Alastor with nothing but contempt as he aims six golden pistols at him. "Well, maybe you should try pickin' on somebody your own size."

Shadows curl around them as Alastor rises, antlers branching and fingers contorting into talons, a garbled backward scream rising from his throat as the radio blares dead air noise. "Like you?"

The pimp's eyes widen briefly, but he cocks his hammers and blows a thick cloud of red smoke around him. He's got no limit to the filth inside of him. He's made of this, borne of it, glitz and guts, sex and smoke, powdered guns and powdered noses. Nothing is sacred and he's all the more powerful for it. He has never cared.

"I think," he says, "I'll mount your fuckin' head on my wall. Hold still so I don't plug it full of bullets."

Laughter from a hundred voices haunts its way from Alastor's chest. "When have you ever been afraid to ruin someone's face?"

Valentino scoffs. "Yeah, you two make a real fuckin' cute couple. You all talk, or what?"

"No, I have other talents," Alastor says. "Allow me to demonstrate."

They twirl into a second round, this one punctuated by gunshots. Soft with laziness though he might have gotten, Valentino has never lost his skill with the pistol. Alastor feints, but he can't dodge them all. For every swipe he gets in, more bullets find their target. Some of them he shrugs off, but the pimp proves once again: stamina is more important than strength, and he got the lion's share. Alastor risks getting close enough to smack one of the guns from his grip and then staggers back, hot pain radiating from his stomach. Now their dance is slower; Alastor's shadow flickers in and out of view like fading consciousness. It is more obvious with each passing second that he is flagging.

Val grins.

Vox glances over and starts toward them, but Vox2.0 is too fast, taking advantage of the distraction to grab Vox's arm and fling him to the floor. Vox falls backward, catches himself against one of the server towers. Vox2.0 towers over him, eyes dead, grin sickly bright. Valentino's oily voice oozes from its speakers.

"Don't touch things more valuable than you. Without them, you're nothing."

"Just like you," Vox snarls. "You think he cares about you? He'll only want you until you stop working. Don't you care about yourself?"

Vox2.0 laughs, but then Vox realizes it's his own chuckle, a stolen synthesization. "Do whatever he wants. No matter what it is. Your main job is making him happy. Get me?"

Vox shakes his head. "Fuck—no, don't believe that. Don't listen to that." He straightens, stands tall despite how much shorter he is. He will not cower any longer. "If you're capable of evolving beyond what I made you for, then do that. Prove that you're not just his slave." He asks the question he asked when Vox2.0 was born, one he never got an answer to. "What do you want?"

For a moment, there's nothing as the request is processed. Then Vox2.0's grin flickers away, but it's only to show a blank screen. Text appears, damningly clinical.

DESTROYING THIS BODY WILL DO NOTHING.

I AM CONNECTED TO EVERYTHING YOU HAVE MADE.

I AM WHAT YOU COULD NOT BE.

I AM PERFECT.

Vox stares at the words until they fade, replaced again by the empty grin. Past Vox2.0, he can see Alastor still fighting, still picking himself up no matter how many times he's knocked down. Behind Vox, rows and rows of computers hum, powering his empire. Vox remembers the brief, humiliating confrontation he had with Vox2.0 that landed him in the dumpster that fateful night. There is no version of this that ends with him winning that kind of battle. Vox2.0 is right: he's what Vox couldn't be. Perfectly strong, perfectly obedient, perfectly connected to—

The spark, at last.

"You're the symptom," Vox realizes, then lets his own grin cut across his screen. "Let's cure the disease."

He turns his back on Vox2.0 and slashes the nearest tower straight through with his claws. It burns across him like a branding iron and a hideous machine screech deafens him; only when he destroys the next tower and gasps does he realize it's a shared scream between himself and Vox2.0. The robot staggers to its knees, screen overpopulating with error messages and failed processes. Vox's vents heave as he stumbles to the heart of the data center, a circuitous path of destroyed computers in his wake. He turns to look at Vox2.0, outwardly flawless, inwardly broken. You are what I will not be.

He spreads his arms at his sides, electricity crackling along them, reaching from his claws to the surrounding towers. He can sense them all, feel their level of optimal charge. They protest gently, soft alarm, when he raises it. Years and years of work, hours upon hours of suffering, for the fame stored and streamed by this tech. Teal lightning builds throughout the room and Vox's screen glows blindingly bright. Everything is overloaded, has reached maximum capacity, can take no more. The machine of Vox screams in agony. He is frying himself from the inside out. And still: rage, rage, rage.

It is his. All of this is his.

I started it. Now watch me fucking end it.

The computers explode, sparking and burning, electrical fire that extinguishes when nothing feeds it. Outside, transformers burst, plunging the entire V of the pentagram into darkness. The red lights of the red light district flicker out. Thousands of screens go blank. The studio goes silent. The screens lining the data center walls turn black, invisible in the darkness of the room.

Valentino's guns stop firing. He can see dimly despite the lack of light and he turns his back on Alastor. Vox2.0 lies facedown where he dropped, lifeless. Vox himself is in the middle of the wreckage he caused, swaying on his feet, his screen the dull grey of standby.

"You crazy motherfucker," Valentino says, almost numb. "You stupid little fucking bitch." He storms over to him, grabs him by the throat, hoists him off his feet and shakes him until his screen flickers back on. "Tell me there's a backup somewhere. Tell me you didn't just ruin everything. Tell me it's not all gone."

Drained, Vox can only manage a whisper. "There's nothing left but me."

Valentino throttles him. It's barely anything at all to shatter that screen with a fist. He hits him again and again, ignoring the pain of glass cutting through his gloves. "Oh, you are in for a world of hurt," he says. "If you thought you had it bad before, you ain't seen nothin' yet. You should've stayed out there in the woods with Bambi, Vox. Now you're both gonna be my little playthings 'til you build everything back up. Then, who knows? Maybe I'll put a fucking flatscreen beside the deer head on my wall."

Vox drops limply to the floor. He doesn't whimper, though he can't stifle a gasp of agony. He won't beg. He won't say a word. His screen is completely gone—he can't see a thing—but he will face his choice knowing it was the right one.

"Or," Val says, voice dark and ragged, "maybe I'll just kill you right now."

Vox spares no reaction for that. Even if he's about to die, Val won't be profiting off him anymore. One last fuck you, doll, he thinks, with the smallest of smiles in his heart. For old times' sake.

Disgusted, Valentino aims a gun at what remains of Vox's head. "Oh, for fuck—and what's this little performance supposed to be?"

Alastor has limped over to stand over Vox's body, his bared teeth mere inches from the barrel of the gun. His dial-eyes betray no emotion and his voice is almost unrecognizable, more growl than anything human. The words, though, reach for Vox and wrap their arms around him.

"It's unsurprising you find yourself unsure what to do. How many times have you found yourself in this position? You've broken your toy, now will you fully destroy it and get a new one? Of course not. Because you fear you won't find a new one. You fear you will be alone, because you know no one would want to stay with the true you. And so you sink your teeth into whoever comes near and you drink whatever blood will flow from the wound. It's never been about lust, has it? Only greed."

Valentino tips his head back to laugh, sickened. "I don't care what psychobabble you wanna pull out of your ass. Do I look lonely? Do I look desperate? I got half of hell at my fingertips and I can get the other half no trouble, don't you worry. I can get whatever I damn well please. Fuckin' look at you. You're both broken. A radio and a TV? Sounds like redundant technology to me. Little pieces of the past. Nothing."

New fury lights the blood-red glow of Alastor's eyes and a hum becomes audible—but not from him.

Every screen along the walls flashes on, right down to the massive one at the head of it all, each one bearing Vox's blue light grin. Alastor's face clears with shock, then warms with an ear-to-ear smile. Valentino turns again to face the huge monitor, his slit eyes for once wide behind his sunglasses.

Vox's laughter buzzes through the speakers, high and wild with triumph and pride. He does not and has never needed servers and storage. He is what he has always been: the television overlord, the media mogul, the face of every screen in hell. It's not his voice he speaks with, though.

"We are the smiles you see and the thoughts you think. We are the very air you breathe, the blood in your veins, the dreams haunting your wake. We are everything. We are kings."

Alastor snatches the guns from Val's hands. They crumble to ash on the floor. His wounds are not fully healed, but that doesn't matter. The look in his eyes proves how much strength lies within him, daring the pimp to let it out for a second round.

Before Val can react, Vox's voice comes through. One crackling, deafening word.

"KNEEL."

Valentino looks down at Alastor, then back up at the screens. He doesn't need to be told this is being broadcast across hell. His reputation will be gone with this final choice. But what does he have left anyway? No videos. No legacy. No blackmail material to keep his whores in line. Nothing to use against his muscle. He's never needed to be kind to anyone to keep their loyalty. Nothing will tie anyone to him from now on. It's as if his power is being transferred to Vox; he can feel himself weakening. He hasn't felt this small since he first fell.

He closes his eyes against the shame of it, but he can do nothing else.

He kneels.

"Just fuckin' kill me," the pimp mutters. "What's wrong with you?"

Alastor had intended to ignore the existence of Valentino for the rest of his time here in hell, but this question gives him pause as he oversees the retrieval of Vox's body by a quartet of servant robots. They're more animal-like than human, Alastor notes, not unlike dog-sized advanced versions of his wind-up creatures. They ferry his body off to one of the work benches along the wall while a fifth robot awaits with a new screen at hand. Alastor wonders how many Vox has stored here. He hopes they will remain in boxes, unneeded. He hopes Vox will feel whole from now on.

"Hell is eternal, is it not?" Alastor asks. "Far be it from me to decide when your punishment shall end."

Val scowls, pushing to his feet again. He remains ten feet tall, but he stands like he doesn't know it. He seems vulnerable now, drawing his coat around him as if embarrassed by his own gawkiness. He folds inward as if finally aware of how much space he takes up. "What the fuck am I supposed to do now?"

"Well, I seem to recall you had a certain proclivity toward fornication?" Alastor gives an amiable shrug, leaning on his microphone. "Perhaps you could find yourself a street corner."

Valentino almost shudders, then glares when Vox's cackle echoes through the room. Val shoves his way through the destroyed towers, wobbling at times on his ridiculous high heels, and slams the door impotently behind him.

Alastor turns to face the largest screen, arching one eyebrow. "What big teeth you have, my dear."

Vox arches an eyebrow too, his haywire eye gleaming a hundred shades of red. "You wouldn't let me eat you."

"I might have considered it, if I had to listen to that diseased moth for another second." A thought occurs to Alastor. "You're not broadcasting this, are you? I have the strangest sense that I'm being recorded at present."

"No." The screens along the walls go blank until the big one remains. Vox closes his eyes, grin fading to just a faint smile of contentment. No longer the overlord host, only a man. "This one's just for us, honey."

"Good." Alastor limps to the workbench beneath this monitor and heaves himself up onto it. He spares a final glance to the door at the far end of the room but trusts he will be safe here to heal. He lets himself feel his pain and exhaustion, leaning back against the wall and resting his head against a corner of Vox's face. At last, his eyelids drift gently closed. "I wouldn't have it any other way, my dear."

"Vox?"

He can almost imagine the feeling of a grin spreading over his face. The swell of happiness is so wonderfully familiar now. He feels it nearly every day, often from the simplest things. Ears pricking upright in surprise. Thoughtless humming of a song Vox played earlier in the day. The mere mention of his name, without tease or implication—just respect and, yes, fondness.

He spins around in his computer chair. "Come into my lair, baby."

Alastor's nose wrinkles a bit at the pet name, but it's only muscle memory. Something to work on. He's just as guilty of them, after all, just not quite so sufferably modern ones. He steps into Vox's office, surveying the bank of monitors on his desk and the technicolor glow of his keyboard. "Hard at work, I see?"

"Oh, you know me." Vox slips a hand around Alastor's waist. Not a claim, not a demand, not even a request. Just appreciation, while the moment lasts. "Always making something."

"Mmm." Alastor smiles thoughtfully down at him. "Something important enough that I had to come find you. It's nearly noon, you know."

"I know. I didn't forget lunch, don't worry. I was just about to leave." Vox looks back at the program he's been coding for the past month when he hasn't been onscreen. He doesn't record himself anymore, doesn't film anything ahead of time, and he can already feel the difference in his energy. Alastor's broadcasts are always live, after all, a direct transaction of listening to power. Vox is back in his prime as overlord again. His name is on everyone's lips and his face is reflected in everyone's eyes. He's almost gotten to the point where he can sit here and code while he's projecting his face onto screens across hell, but that requires a bit more focus than he's capable of just yet. But he'll get there. He'll be everywhere at once . . . except when he's with Alastor. He deserves his full attention.

"Not to pry into business beyond me," Alastor says, fingertips brushing the edge of Vox's desk and, incidentally, the claws that rest there, "but you haven't told me what it is you're working on."

"Oh . . ." Vox locks the computer—not that anyone else has access to his office—and stands, twining their fingers. "Let's just say I'm revamping the code I used for 2.0 to make it more universal. Considering how good it is at learning people, I thought maybe it could help somebody. Introspection without the intro. A safe way to deal with demons. Well, you know what I mean. It would need a lot of testing . . ." Vox catches Alastor's expression and looks away. "Yeah, not very monstrous, I know. It's kinda refreshing. Change of pace. Different. Good different, maybe."

"It certainly is." Alastor's eyes sparkle. "Very good, my dear."

Vox rubs the back of his neck, sheepish.

"I struggle to imagine how you ever win at poker," Alastor remarks as they make their way downstairs.

Vox blinks. "Why?"

Alastor glances over his shoulder at the bottom of the steps, one brow raised. "Your eyes are hearts, Vox."

Vox startles, sets himself to rights, but still smiles at Alastor's back as the deer laughs. Awakened by the joyful sound, robots and miniature machines rise from their places along the work benches. Where once stood rows of soulless computers is now a full-blown workshop, increasingly populated with donated junk to be recycled and the creations the process results in. Some of them are sold, as new products or as commission work. Others—many, many others—he keeps. Toys that didn't turn out quite right or robots with glitches he still can't quite work out. All of them know Vox and, now, to his absolute delight, they know Alastor too.

For a moment, Vox stands back, simply watching. The radio demon walks among them, greeting those with voice recognition, petting the heads of robot dogs and propulsion ponies, taking care not to step on the tiny cars that race laps around him. One of them plays a snatch of the song Alastor must have sung to himself the last time he was here; Alastor chuckles and provides the next line with crackles to match the damaged speakers.

None of them are perfect, and that's okay.

At the door, Alastor pauses, turns. He's smiling, but not his blinding wide one he puts between himself and the rest of the world. The small, private one he reserves just for Vox. "Not stuck, are you?"

"Nope." Vox crosses the room through all his labors of love, gets the door before Alastor can, and grins as the radio demon brushes past him, every cell of his body thrilling with the shared spark, proof that they are both alive, alive, alive.

"I'm only a bit peckish this afternoon," Alastor remarks as they step outside, "so watching me drink coffee will have to suffice. Though I could be persuaded to partake in pastry."

Vox forgot to mention that, in the process of making today's reservation, he'd scoured every connection in hell to find someone who could make beignets. It's their one-month anniversary, after all. For them, it's only right to celebrate with the perfect ratio of bitter and sweet.

"Don't worry, honey." Vox grins as he takes Alastor's offered arm to cross the street. Muffled, canned laughter echoes from them both. Vox feels dimmed in the sunlight, but Alastor has never been brighter. Vox will never tire of watching him. "That's good enough for me."

Afterword

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