Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vee Tower was looking distinctly less immaculate than it had mere hours ago. Much of the surrounding area was reduced to rubble, bodies were still being pulled from the decimation. Golden smoke streamed into the red night sky, creating a haze that lingered in the hopes of all sinners. The effort to rebuild would be a nuisance, and the remaining Vees would likely try to push blame elsewhere, not wanting to claim the monstrosity their former third had unleashed. The corner of Alastor's mouth twitched with unbridled joy.

His plan had worked.

Vox had unfurled like a wilting flower, showing every last petal before he withered and died right before his eyes. Oh, the desperation and malice that crackled though Vox's voice, the threat to kill them all just to keep Alastor's attention until the very end? Inspirational. Truly a level of madness that Alastor had tasted, but hadn't been able to achieve before now.

Has he regained the strongest sinner in Hell status now that Vox has been taken down a peg? No matter, the chains that bound him in any direction were gone. Shattered. He'd outsmarted some of the most cunning beings in this immortal pit, all with world play and enough determination. Overlords were simple, really. Give them an inch and they'll take the mile. Every. Single. Time.

Alastor's visions were much more grand. He'd dipped his toes, sampled the pies, garnered influence. He'd played his game fair and square, taking it all on his shoulders and suffering the successes and consequences equally. The hotel was thriving, packed to the brim with hopeful souls seeking redemption. Lucifer, despite doing nothing to solve their little television problem, flitted around the hotel like he still deserved respect. Preposterous.

Hell no longer needed a king, but it desperately needed guidance.

The vile moth had swooped in instantly, not wasting a moment claiming the spotlight. Sympathy was a silly thing, he'd decided. Uselessly elevating undeserving souls to higher stations than they should carry, allowing them to spew nonsense to the masses. It benefited him, he'd never doubt that, but his smile wavered every time Valentino's interviews played throughout the hotel. Dismissive. Lacking. Utterly disappointing compared to his superior counterpart.

Like a cockroach squeaking on the end of Niffty's needle, it had become bothersome before it ever became interesting. Charlie was still in a tither about Angel Dust, every other sentence choked upon a memory or wistful notion. His contract was owned and owed, locked tight by neon pink chains and venomous smoke. What else could she expect? The spider never could have broken two set of chain at once, let alone one he'd willingly signed. Her delusions of grandeur never ceased to amaze him.

Alastor was free. No more Rosie giving him demands. No more Charlie asking him for nonsense for a dream that would never be achieved. No more Vox keeping him tied to a chair. A free man for the first time in all his hellish life. It should be a free for all. He should be taking down overlords, broadcasting their demise, devouring their flesh by the pound. Hell was his infernal playground.

Yet, he's become a chastised child, constantly under vigilance of the Princess and King, not to mention the exorcist host and his own minions. Alastor had thought that having all eyes on him would be a point of power, but currently, it felt like a prison. If his antlers grew just a bit too much, Charlie was there with calming words and an offer of therapy. Flitting frequencies were mitigated by Husk and his endless supply of rye on the rocks. Drooling power, a clenched fist, was quelled by a single giant eye, Niffty staring up at him with a trembling lip.

The strongest sinner in Hell was an award he'd only lost for mere moments, and he felt that power coursing through his veins with each new day. Charlie Morningstar. Her father, her girlfriend. His lackeys. Residents of the hotel. A successful but dulcet influx of new patrons that did little to spark his interest. Alastor longed for Angel's return, witty and crass, and the taunting that had once been constant from his rival. Besides a few backhanded compliments and idle threats, he'd never felt more secure. Worst of all, he'd grown attached.

Fuck.

If he possessed a stomach capable of emesis, the lobby would be coated in sinner blood and bones. Instead, he's forced to choke down bile and the roiling sense that something wasn't right. No chains, no deals, no promises kept him bound. Alastor had outwitted every rival, spun a tale that placed him at the top, delivered a verbal thrashing to the King of Hell. By all intentions and purposes, he should be on top of the world.

Yet, he grew bored nearly instantly.

Lucifer only cared to engage in their feud when it pertained to Charlie, which didn't happen nearly as often now that Rosie wasn't pulling the strings. Vaggi was too engrossed in her role, taking over hosting duties with razor sharp precision. Angel was lost to the moth, drunk on aphrodisiacs and a contract couldn't break. Husk was miserable, Niffty distracted by the fish, Cherri focused on the snake….

He'd been tortured. Strung up like a puppet, confined to a desk chair, forced to witness all sorts of madness. While amusing, playing right into his hands, it didn't negate his discomfort with the whole thing. Kept away from their schemes and their planning. Forced to witness the atrocities of the Vees. Why did no one care?!

Repaired staff now in hand, crackling with his own energy, unrestrained and uncontrolled, his smile bent at the seams. Fine. If he wasn't entertained appreciated here, he knew where to go. There would always been one soul in Hell that could provide an ego boost.

Glass and concrete still littered the streets. Velvette and Valentino had valued saving face far more than maintaining a solid foundation. Alastor's tongue clicked with disgust as he kicked away a cyan chunk, clearly part of Vox's influence. Perhaps it was once part of Shock.wav's tank. It crushed the same underneath Alastor's heel.

Most of the screens had been replaced, lighting up Pentagram City with ads for various pornographic films or whatever designer drug was hitting the night scene. He'd never needed drugs to aide his chaos, but he did wonder if it would be an enjoyable experience. Then he remembers Angel stumbling through the front door, words slurred and barely containing bile, and Alastor reconsiders.

He'd been out of his own control long enough, several decades, and he wouldn't waste his freedom on substances.

The sliding glass doors that used to be something impenetrable without a sleek card slid open without hesitation. Early mornings were quiet, a skeleton crew manning the reception desk and security mostly asleep against the remaining walls. Everyone was exhausted, confused, trying to find a way to cope with the new normal. It suited Alastor just fine.

The poor eel sleeping behind the desk only gave a subtle snort as he crept toward the elevator, inching through shadows. Sparks flew off wall panels and multiple fixtures in the ceiling hadn't regained power. As much as he'd liked to joke, perhaps Hell had truly needed Vox for his power.

It was formidable. He could admit that. It's why he hadn't laughed the sinner off the second he approached.

Cords and cogs groaned as Alastor ascended toward the penthouse. He'd spent a significant amount of time there, and the system seemed to still recognize his signature. Vox must have granted him access he wasn't even aware of as a prisoner. The lobby would have been boring in comparison to the fun he was having tearing apart the Vees thread by sinuous thread.

The place certainly smelled more like Valentino. The moth's pheromones seeping into each nook, coating all the remaining static in a sultry haze. Alastor's nose wrinkles as he ascends, doing his best to hold his breath. It's easy enough, used to stuffing his face with sinner flesh so ravenously that he doesn't come up for air for minutes at a time. Sweets have never much appealed.

Steel doors slide open, revealing an ocean of dark blue and gray. The main tank that once housed Vox's sharks is drained of water, his beasts scattered in the aftermath. The concrete floors as darkened with damp, swollen with a weight they may not be able to carry. Alastor wonders if each step he takes will send him plummeting down multiple floors, further destruction no longer part of his choices.

Luckily, the structure holds, and he can slink deeper into the penthouse suite. Shadows are cast over most of the space, which makes it easier for him to slide through his once prison. Liquor bottles line the floor, melted ice settling into a stain. Pillows, once plush, were hollow with their feathers spilling out at every angle. Whatever calm had once lived here was destroyed the second Vox decided Alastor was more important than himself.

Pathetic.

Velvette's signal doesn't register nearby, but as somewhere deeper in the facility. The moth, however, seems to be right around the corner. Without his strings, there was far less worry, but Alastor's chest still ached from an angelic blow. Repeat performances were no longer welcome after his latest bout with Vox.

Speaking of. Tiptoeing over broken glass and crumbling walls, it didn't take long to locate his prize. Valentino was curled up in the bed they'd placed Alastor next to, chair left obliterated before the stage. His ears still twitched in annoyance, flicking away thoughts of the more horrible acts he'd been forced to witness. Certainly not missing out on much of anything, if he was being honest. He always was.

Singed wings wrapped tightly around the new media overlord, nearly translucent in the early evening light. Snores rustled the rest of the sheets, tangled around long legs and clenched in multiple fists. Laying next to the moth's face was the prize Alastor has come for.

Seeing Valentino rip Vox's head from his body had been quite hilarious, but he hadn't had the time to appreciate it fully. Now, seeing that silly picture box and his minuscule hat nestled among a foray of pillows, he nearly broke his cover. Smothering laughter behind a clenched fist wouldn't last long. His rival reduced to glass and plastic was nothing short of the next divine comedy, and Alastor wanted a starring role.

Alastor's nose itched from the cloying scent of the porn director, but he managed to slip the television out from under purple claws. The screen remained dim, only a logo of the Voxtek logo bouncing into the corners. A spark jumped from Vox's antennae, but both horrid things remained slumbering. He gripped the corner of Vox's screen between his thumb and forefinger, red daggers catching against the case. Neither soul stirred, blissfully unaware of the intrusion. Perhaps they should get better security, especially with Baxter now on their team. Loyalty was so hard to come by these days.

Tucking the screen against his chest, Alastor ignored a snuffling squeal as they melted into shadow, curses lost to a space that would cease to be after they exited.

It was only once they emerged back in tower at the hotel that Vox's screams became apparent.

"Holy FUCK ALASTOR — WHY?! I can't even fight you right now!" Color bars and static rapidly interchanged with Vox's face, his once sure voice destroyed by static. "If you're going to kill me, can we do it quick? All this anticipation is making me itchy."

There's a scowl creasing his multicolored eyes, pout on his nonexistent lips. Alastor would almost call it endearing. He did so love a good bit of begging.

"Sorry, sweetheart. No such luck today. I suppose you'll have to try again some other time." Alastor's hands could almost be called gentle as they placed Vox's head along his headboard. Nestled in a swath of pillows and carefully placed cardboard, it almost seemed like he belonged. The stump that was once his neck oozed a bit of blood, but nothing Alastor couldn't tolerate. He'd gone to sleep with far more staining his sheets.

A deep flush tainted Vox' cheeks, vivid in the darkness. His screen instantly dropped the brightness, trying to hide his transgression. Despite nearly losing it all, his life and those of most of Hell, he seemed awfully demure. With nowhere to go, Vox's teeth worried at the falsehood of his lips. "Why am I here?" It comes out weak and crunchy and nothing like his usual machismo.

Alastor hates it. Despises the weakness in his rival of nearly a century. He didn't invest all that time and effort to have an enemy that bent at the first sign of adversity. This simply wouldn't do.

"I missed you, ridiculous picture box. You've been so very entertaining. I thought we could continue this little game for a while more." Pleasantries would insist he ask if Vox was amenable to that plan. Alastor doesn't want to be pleasant at all.

He crawls into bed beside Vox's head, still fully clothed in his burnt suit. Hands tucked beneath his cheek, his eyes slant to catch Vox's flitting eyes. Nerves, uncertainty, the tiniest ounce of charisma. He'd missed his picture box so very much in his absence. The fans in Vox's head change speed, whirring hot air into the quiet space.

The red rim that surrounds Vox's eyes is both normal for him, but also result of tears Alastor hadn't been privy to witness. Shame. At least he could see the fresh ones gather in his ducts, violently blue and glitching in wonderful technicolor. Alastor is almost thankful he didn't live to see the beauty of television in life. Nothing could compare to this ridiculous screen before him.

Vox did little more than whimper, antennae falling against his case. His screen dimmed to a near pitch black, but Alastor could see his red and blue pupils peaking around the edge of his boxy head. The line of his mouth wobbled in a way that made Alastor sure he wanted to speak his mind, but couldn't find the words. Despite being so influential, his pal sure did struggle with the finer points of dictation. It would take some getting used to, and his silly picture box couldn't stay in his bed forever, but he was back where he belonged; under Alastor's watchful gaze, ready to berate him at a moments notice.

When Alastor awakens the next morning, it's due to a tune he's unfamiliar with. The frequency is one he's well acquainted with, felling it tickle the curve of his ears, causing them to flick like they're deflecting flies. It's catchy, certainly something more modern than he'd like, but not overtly offensive as Vox hums to himself. For having been abducted in the dead of night by his enemy and one day his cause of death, his spirits seem high. Alastor isn't certain if he prefers contentment to screams of terror, but there's still time for that to change.

Crimson eyes peak up through lashes to lock with Vox's own mismatched pair. That cyan smile is curved in a relaxed smirk, face rocking on screen despite his head not being able to move on it's own. A soft whirl of warm air escapes his vents, brushing against Alastor's cheek. Peaceful, all things considered. How quaint.

"Good morning, Vincent. I trust you slept well?" His smile sharpens at the corners as Vox stops his tune, eyes going wide. The brightness of his screen increases underneath his eyes, a funny imitation of a blush. His dear friend had never been very good at keeping his emotions in check. Sparks arched between receivers, sputtering nonsensical signals to fill the void.

"Kind of hard to sleep after getting your head ripped from your body and then stolen by the damned Radio Demon who was trying to end me yesterday. If you're trying to finish what you started, it would have been kinder to do before giving me the chance to watch you sleep." Vox's voice is softer, less razor sharp teeth and more put upon friend. Perhaps he is a bit disappointed to still be gracing this plane of existence. That won't do.

"Nonsense, dear! If I am to kill you, it certainly won't be in this form. No, no, I demand a proper fight to the death. A body will be in order eventually, but for now, I am enjoying this ridiculous form." Alastor taps a claw against Vox's glass, a tinkling sound right where a nose should be. Vox's face bunches like he felt it with his entire being, teeth snapping at his finger without making contact. The frustrated furrow in his brow is icing on the cake.

"Seriously? You're going to keep me like this? In the hotel? I don't think the Morningstars are going to be too keen on their recent foil posted up with their hotelier." The bitterness in his tone is laughable given what he put all of them through. A petulant toddler upset about being placed in time out. Alastor rolls his eyes as he sits up, stretching and popping his joints back into place. Vox flinched at a particularly large crack, watching Alastor's neck snap into place. What fun this would be — Vox the captive and Alastor pulling all the strings.

"It will be awkward… for you. Whatever the princess and her idiot father decide to do about your presence is none of my concern. Unless it's an immediate threat to your continued existence, I'm afraid a taste of your own medicine may be just the thing you need." He flicks one of the balls at the end of Vox's antennae before sliding out of bed, snapping his clothes into pristine condition. The grumpy look he gets in return sets his heart all aflutter. "Perhaps Baxter can show us all that nifty little silencing trick he played on you. It was a highlight of the whole affair to be sure!"

Despite his harsh words, his hands are gentle as they grab the corners of Vox's head. He cradles it in his arms like a babe, rabbit ears bouncing against his chin. Fans pick up speed, and Alastor can feel the heat radiating from his old pal. A tinny laugh crackles through the air, his mouth wide as he laughs in unabashed joy. Predictable, ridiculous, and entertaining as always. A moment of bars and tones nearly drowns him out, but it's over quickly as Vox regains composure.

"Laugh it up, old timer! Once I'm whole again, you'll be the one begging for forgiveness. Wait, Baxter? The little fish in R&D? He can say goodbye to his benefits!"

Alastor just hums as he makes his way to the dining hall. Best to rip out the stitches in one go or however the phrase goes. He pats the side of Vox's head, condescending. "Whatever you say, dear."

Vox's frustrated scream comes as they pass through the doorway, and suddenly, hundreds of eyes are on them. Hundreds of angry, blood thirsty, frenzied eyes lock onto his screen as his friend finishes his tantrum. "Not the greatest first impression, I'm afraid. But Charlotte does love to preach about forgiveness and redemption. I'm sure all of these lovely sinners are just chomping at the bit to excuse your horrendous behavior." Dials flicker in his eyes, smile growing to thrice its size, lights flashing above.

Charlie looks positively mortified as Alastor settles himself and Vox into a seat at the head of the table. Horns start to peak out of her hair, eyes alight with flame. Resentment was such a funny thing. It could make people do all sorts of things. "Don't pause your meal on my account, princess. What was that you said during the interview that nearly ended in a literal train wreck? Ah yes, you believe anyone can be redeemed." He bites into a crisp piece of bacon, crumbs falling into Vox's vents.

Vincent scoffs in annoyance, but keeps his eyes down so he doesn't have to meet Charlie's vicious gaze. Good to know his brain was in fact in his head. "Well, I've brought your greatest project right to your front door! Congratulations. I cannot wait to watch him crash and burn at every turn." A hush falls upon the room, only Niffty's needle stabbing to be heard. Not quite a pin drop, but he'll take what he can get.

Alastor lets his smile relax and his eyes hood as the shouting begins. Charlotte is both outraged and elated, jumping between ideas faster than he cares to follow. Vox has begun to glitch at an astonishing rate, static laced with bars and vicious pop ups. The staff seem to be plotting multiple brutal methods of torture, maiming, or full on death. It's music to his ears. Finally free to run this show exactly as he wishes, just as it always should have been. Hell won't know what hit them.

Vox overloads, a bright blue screen consuming his face. Alastor can make out some time of error code and a mention of his own name. A hush falls over the room, even Charlie stopping her myriad of ideas. He can't contain the wheeze in his laugh, the way his fist slams against the table, the way his cackles ring throughout the hotel. Oh, it was good to be back on the air. "Wonderful ideas, my dear, simply wonderful. I think picture box is in need of a break, but we'll circle back, yes?"

Chaos thoroughly made, a broken Vox settled against his chest. Plans set into motion. Yes, this may just be the best day in all of Hell.

Chapter Text

A PROBLEM HAS BEEN DETECTED AND VOX HAS BEEN SHUT DOWN TO PREVENT DAMAGE TO HIS SYSTEMS.

THE PROBLEM SEEMS TO BE CAUSED BY THE FOLLOWING FILE: ALASTOR.EXE

VOX.EXE_CRASH_ERROR_EAT_SHIT_ALASTOR.

System rebooting…

ERROR: FAILURE TO RESTART.

INITIATING SAFE MODE.

System rebooting…

ERROR: EMOTIONAL THRESHOLD MET. REMOVE CAUSE OF VIOLENT OUTBURST BEFORE RESTARTING.

Initializing…

ERROR: ALASTOR GET YOUR FUCKING FACE OUT OF MY FACE YOU PRICK.

System rebooting…

When Vox's screen finally sparks with life once more, he's not sure what he should expect. A crash out in the kitchen of the Hazbin Hotel hadn't been on his list of eternal torment, but Hell was full of surprises. Usually after his systems shut down, Vox would wake up in his bed, tucked in by Valentino, a glass of water and pills left by Velvette on the nightstand. Shock.wav and his siblings would be circling near the glass, waiting for their father's signature to come back online. It was peaceful, quiet, a safe space to reboot without prying eyes or sensory overload.

This was different for sure.

Alastor's crimson eyes were mere inches from his screen, staring deeply into what had been pitch black. The sudden change in brightness caused his eyes to dilate, pupils shrinking into red seas. Vox wanted to take that as a victory, a bit of spite against the bastard who abducted him and now thought he could force him to change. Oh fuck. Wait.

Alastor had signed him up for redemption.

A rainbow flashes across his screen as the last few lines of code run through his mind, letting him know he's fully back online. A few popups let him know that his body sequencing has failed. He didn't need the reminder. The stump of his neck and lack of lungs had been a great indicator. Vox ached for his hands, if only to cover up the mess of static that danced across his screen. Digital tears clung to the corners of his eyes, frustrated and cursed to the fucking whims of others.

Holy fuck, his rival signed him up for the princess's little pet project without any warning.

Why? What was the point? Vox had done a pretty damn good job at proving he wasn't able to be redeemed. The murders, the blasphemy, the war with Heaven. His near mass genocide and suicide. Definitely not the sort of soul Heaven would want without the hostile takeover aspect. He'd been so close, but Alastor had ruined it for him. Wiping that stupid smile from his face would be the last thing Vox ever did. He could feel it.

Electricity arced between his rabbit ears, sparking hot with annoyance. "What. The FUCK. Was that?" Cyan teeth are clenched so tightly that he almost breaks the pixels. The last thing he needs is a line of artifacts obscuring his vision. "Seriously? You kidnapped me in the middle of the night and brought to this stupid failure of a hotel to help me seek redemption?! Did you get a new cocaine supplier? I thought you quite that shit in the seventies."

Alastor hums as he leans back on his heels. Vox is once again propped up on his pillows, while the deer is sitting next to him, back rigid and smile tight. Fluffy ears twitch in irritation, which he assumes is the audacity of being questioned. There's a groan that creaks from his jaw, locked in a facsimile of a grin. "You know I have no need for illicit substances to make dreadful decisions. It's one of my more redeeming qualities." A dismissive hand flicks back and forth in the space between them, and Vox wishes he could bite off those fingers and feed them to the cannibal.

"Answer the questions, asshole! After everything that just happened, you think any of this shit is going to fly? Newsflash, prick, Neither Heaven or Hell are keen on having me around right now. If you wanted to kill me, there were a lot of opportunities in the last 24 hours. Further humiliation isn't going to change the fact that I'm the most hated sinner in Hell." His pout may be a bit petulant, but can he be blamed? Vox had crashed spectacularly.

"My dear, that is precisely why further humiliation is sorely needed. We can't have you living in delusions of grandeur forever. The mighty has fallen, and now you must pick up the pieces. It would do us no good to allow you to wallow in despair nor repeat such an offense. Hell is where you belong, Vincent. But what fun it would be to see you struggle to climb the rungs of redemption only to fumble the entire thing. Humbling, which is just what the doctor ordered!" Alastor's razor sharp smile is creeping in closer once more, teeth mere centimeters from Vox's own snarl.

With a simple motion, it could become a kiss —

Nope. Stop it. Bad Vox, no lusting after the Radio Demon. It had already proven to be a bad habit. If Alastor was really expecting him to change, to give this whole recovery program a shot, then he'd have to let go of all his worst traits. Eternally chasing after his arch enemy would surely be the first thing to go, and Vox didn't want to make the sacrifice.

Vox licked the tip of Alastor's nose, for both annoyance and to make the man back the fuck up. The deer recoiled quickly, antlers growing with rage. He couldn't help the small giggle of victory before he spurred on. "Kind of hard to be redeemed when I'm already broken, Al. Defeated by the power of friendship or whatever, and now I have nothing. My body is rotting at my own party, Val and Vel think I'm the worst, and I'm still not sure you didn't kidnap me just to eat me. I'm not exactly prime material for Charlie's little gimmick. Just because you find it hilarious doesn't mean I'm going to play along with the nonsense."

He wishes he had arms to cross. It would be better than having to display each emotion on his screen. Hell was kill or be killed, and giving too much away had always been his weakness. At least when he had a body he was able to send mixed signals, a bit of relaxation mingling with his despair. Now, every quiver of his mouth or twitch in his brow was a dead giveaway. Technicolor wetness in the corners of his eyes betrayed his anger, exposing his self worth at an all time low. He hadn't felt this way since he was a weatherman. Pitiful. Disgusting.

Alastor taps his chin like he's deep in thought, muttering something under his breath. There's too much joy in his eyes for him to be taking this seriously. "Well, I suppose it would be rather like putting lipstick on a pig and calling it Angel Dust, but that's the point! The greatest show you'll have ever made. The trials and tribulations of redeeming someone no one forgives! Think of the headlines. Why, it would be positively horrible for you! Everyone rooting for your downfall, while all you have to do is actually try. A small price to pay if you ask me."

The Radio Demon makes it sound easy. Nonchalant. Like Vox can just walk in and commit to the bit without being torn to shreds. Why would the Morningstar brat even waste time on him? What angle would she try? Poor, manipulated Vincent, not hugged enough as a child because he wasn't good enough for his mother's kindness or his father's respect. Told he could be anything he wants as long as they approved. Turns out they greatly approved of God and everything they heard on the television. In life, he'd picked the easiest path to follow. In death, he'd done the same.

Unloved by the two people who were obligated to. Vox has always been certain they're somewhere here in Hell, laughing at how much of failure he is. Probably still downing bottles and drowning in each other like they'd always wanted to. Children were something society had demanded of them so they provided. An expectation, one that Vox couldn't possibly live up to, even now. Earning their love, their time and attention, their affections was a Sisyphean battle, eternal and foolish.

Battery acid tickles his tongue, corrosive and vile. He's spiraling, falling down a rabbit hole that he can't climb out of. Gray static fills his screen, clouding his vision and consuming the airwaves. Vox had failed to take over Heaven, reaped destruction on Pentagram City, crumbled his empire overnight. There was no throne, no staircase, no crown. God was loved, cherished, worshiped by those who would never even meet the man. Vox had over a century to garner affection, and instead has been left with hatred and disrespect.

Spited. Cursed to an endless cycle of chasing love only to be swatted down like a bug. The ringing in his sensors is piercing, high pitched and violent. Vox's fans are fighting to keep him from overheating, especially this close to his previous meltdown. Circuits spark, threatening to fry as waves of shame overwhelm him. Forsaken by God and by his disciples. Unlovable —

Cool claws scrape the front of his screen, prickling and dangerous. Any more pressure, and his screen would crack. It's enough to snap him out of his thoughts, wide eyes nearly taking over his face. His mouth is a thin line as he glances at the a serene Radio Demon, lounging on his bed without a care, little hooves swishing through the air. Alastor's smile is more relaxed, less manic than it's been all day. Vox has to swallow hard to keep himself from blurting out words that have clung to his tongue for far too long.

"Now, now, sweetheart. I wouldn't want you to crash again without me being the cause. That little blue screen that takes over is hilarious and enlightening, but I do so prefer your expressions. Now! What will you do to improve yourself and prove to Heaven and Hell that you aren't an irredeemable charlatan? If you say gift baskets, I will throw you over the balcony and laugh as you shatter on the pavement."

Vox blinks rapidly, mouth a thin line as Alastor's fingers remain on his screen. Does he really think Vox has any idea how to atone for all the shit he's done? Which sin was he supposed to start with? He collected a lot of them. Is he supposed to start small and work up to the big ones, or just knock out the worst of the worst first and leave the small fish swimming? Why does he even care? This stupid idea will never work.

"I'm not going to do a damn thing, Al. Even if the princess's hotel does work, I've got more red on my ledger than all the residence put together. That snake had barely done anything worthy of being in Hell! If it was going to work, of course it was going to be on him. Most of us other fuckers have far more on our souls than not being a snitch," Vox scoffs. He'd written his sins in blood, sweat, and tears. It wasn't just going to magically vanish with some group therapy and trust exercises.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. I know you enjoy being difficult just as much as I do, Vincent, but you must get with the program. You have no other choice! The Vees will lock you in some damp basement and keep you for your power if you crawl back to them. Bridges well and truly burned! Or you stay with me and let Charlie weasel you into Heaven a more legitimate way. I think we both know what benefits you more," Alastor says, the tingle of a threat lacing each word. He definitely would throw him out of the window if he didn't agree.

"I don't understand why you're pushing this. Yesterday, I nearly killed you. I was ready to let it all burn to the ground." To get his attention, to wipe that smile off his face, to have his eyes on him in the final moments. It goes unsaid, but the twitch in Alastor's grin lets him know the other has him figured out. It would feel great if his heart wasn't torn to shreds. "You don't do nice. So there's an ulterior motive to all this that you're not saying, and I'm just supposed to fall into another trap of yours? Fat chance. Look where that got me!"

Damn, he misses his body. His hits don't land the same without dramatic sweeps of his arms or pointed fingers. Now all he has is a scowl and brimming tears. Damn it. "Whatever angle your playing at, it won't work. My luck has run dry. Sure, I still have my contracts for now, but once I'm no longer able to keep up my end of the bargain, they'll fizzle out fast. You've got nothing to gain from me."

It's raw, vulnerable, but he can't bring himself to care. Alastor has always brought it out in him. From wishful thinking in a bar to his villain speech the night before, this prick was impossible to hide anything from, and he didn't even have to try with Vox. Vibrant talons drop from his screen, resting on the pillow near his neck. He's not certain Al won't sink his claws in and dig out Vox's brain, but there's too much elegance in the motion to be malicious. His head tilts to the side, staring for uncomfortable moments directly into his wet eyes.

Alastor's feet kick for a second more before falling back against the sheets. The tip of his pointer finger catches against his casing, pulling just slightly at the seam. It's nonthreatening, but Vox's processors start sending out error codes and popups with anticipation. He can taste blood in the back of his throat, teeth sinking into his traitorous tongue. His head quivers at the soft touch, swallowing down claims of hypocrisy in favor of enjoying the sensation. Alastor's claw trails around the edges of his screen, stopping over one of his vents before diving in. Not to maim, just a curious touch.

Vox almost chokes on his own blood to keep from crying out. Stupid deer. Stupid sensitive head. Stupid never-ending crush on the most unavailable man in Hell. Tears stream from his eyes, collecting at the bottom of his digital face like they could drown him. Vox almost wishes they would. It would be less torturous than whatever the fuck this was. His face is becoming an oil spill of color, rainbows dancing through the liquid crystals behind the screen. Alastor's hand continue upward, curling gently around his wonky antennae.

The caress is gentle, cradling his most delicate pieces with care. More care than he had when he'd crushed it beneath his heel all those years ago. Vox wonders if Alastor even remembers. He'd cried a lot like he was now, broken in both body and mind, heart shattered like the glass of his face that littered the streets. Newer television models didn't even have rabbit ears, but Vox hadn't been able to get rid of them in all his upgrades. A punishment he'd have to live with until the universe imploded. Was it a wonder he never managed to move on when he bore a reminder of his greatest failure everyday?

"Silly picture box. It's exactly why I'm so keen on the idea. Soon you will have nothing, just like the day you stumbled into this pit. Lost, in need of guidance, fumbling with power you didn't understand. You achieved greatness once. It will be just marvelous to watch it happen all over again." The last words don't even leave Alastor's lips, whispered among the radio waves that he was always tuned to.

A whine escapes him, so shrill and pathetic that Vox barely registered it had come from him. Broken, horrible sobs chase each falling tear. He nearly chokes as the liquid fills his mouth, having no place to go but back inside him. Static creeps in from the edges, sharper and blacker than he's felt in decades. He's going to die from a few kind words and sweet touches. Pathetic, stupid, useless Vincent.

Alastor's hands still hold his antennae with great care, the other finally wrapping around the back of his head to draw him to his chest. There's a rhythmic scraping of claws twirling around his ports, a beautiful melodic hum rumbling to distract him. It takes ages for Vox to finally catch his breath, for the tears to find a new home in his head, for the panic to subside. Alastor murmurs a tune the whole time, not uttering a word as he waits for Vox to catch up. The television wants so desperately for this to be real, to give in to the ridiculous demands of the only soul who's ever completed him.

It wouldn't lessen the pain, but maybe he'd feel less like he was losing his goddamn mind. He lets himself be pressed against Alastor's scarred chest, enjoy the scent of rot and rainfall that clings to his fur. Once the burning in his nonexistent lungs fades, he seeks out the song his rival is humming. Cheek to cheek. What a fucking sap.

Vox does his best to harmonize even though his tongue feels like sandpaper. If he gets the words wrong, Alastor doesn't call him out on it. They continue on, driving out the horrors that plague Vox's mind with each note. It's like time stood still, locking them back in moments long past. He doesn't dare hold out hope that there's a deeper meaning behind it all. The shards of his heart can't cope with it right now. But one song wouldn't hurt.

And I seem to find the happiness I seek

When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek.

Chapter Text

The swelling of pain behind his eyes should be more concerning to Vox, but he's used to bodily pain. An eternal torment and all that, cursed to migraines and stiff joints, never truly feeling rested. A pounding head could have been the result of too many drinks or a crossed wire. The cause didn't matter. It still laid him out faster than a brawl with Alastor.

Fuck. Alastor.

Vox had sobbed into the beautiful fluffy marvelous chest of the man he'd sworn to destroy. Alastor had let him. Waves of nausea wash over him, acid burning at the back of his tongue. Between the auras dancing in his vision and the cotton feeling of his tongue, he was sure he'd keel over in moments. Dehydration in Hell wasn't uncommon, but Vox hadn't struggled with it in decades. He whimpers into the pillow beneath his face, cloying and horrible for him. Perhaps wishing for death hadn't been such a terrible idea.

Cords force themselves out of his ports, bracing against the plush surface. Vox would have been thanking himself a few days ago, but now he'd cursed to thank God that the lighting in the room is dim. Thick curtains are drawn tight, keeping out any leeching rays. A single candle, burned down significantly, sat on the table next to the bed. The rest of the room had settled in darkness, crickets and the sound of water rushing in the distance.

If Vox wasn't about to lose his proverbial lunch, it would have been peaceful. But the aching in his head and one too many crashes in a day left him drained. His screen dimmed to near nothing, nearly monotone as his circuits roiled. He didn't even have a stomach in this form. It was bullshit that Hell continued to curse him with this discomfort. Punishment after punishment, exactly what the Good Lord ordered.

As his plugs managed to prop him upright, it quickly became clear that Alastor was no longer around. There was too much stillness, not enough frenzy for the man to still be inhabiting his bedroom. His side The bed was impeccably made, corners folded at rigid angles. The lingering scent of rot and chicory was faint, bare perceptible to Vox's lack of a nose. He was alone, fully alone, for the first time in… years? Months? Perhaps he should be more concerned with how much of his time had blurred, how much he'd lost, but the suffocating numbness didn't allow for it.

The corners of his eyes throb with remnants of tears, raw and red and unsightly. Moisture had pooled in the back of his head, muffling his already sluggish thoughts. Alastor was gone. He was in the Radio Demon's territory alone. Vox had cried against his chest, choking on the kindness, and then been left to cope all on his own. It was a brand of cruelty he wasn't sure the deer was even aware of, but it shot through his heart nonetheless. The expansive room felt like a prison, suffocating and threatening to swallow him whole, just come a little closer, dear —

Fireflies dissipate had a soft rap echoes through the room. Vox had to force his eyes shut and grind his teeth before he realizes that it was real, someone was at the door, and he was the only one around. Would Alastor crush him if he let a stranger into his space? Was Vox allowed to even make the choice? Who would be brave enough to knock of the Radio Demon's door in the first place? Sparks jumped from his antennae, supplying him with what little energy he had in case this became a fight.

Please don't let it become a fight. He's been embarrassed enough.

The knob turns and Vox grits his teeth. Please be a friendly face, please please please.

Friendly may have been too vague of a term. Charlie Morningstar, princess of Hell, peeks around the corner, lip worried and red. She's pretty, he's always been aware of that, but too naive and optimistic for him to bother keeping up with her mission. There's a lot of emotion flitting behind her eyes, many of the angry, but she settles on something less hostile when their gazes lock.

There's a curl to the corner of her mouth that he's never been privy to. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, jacket unbuttoned in something akin to relaxation. Vox knows its a lie, she hasn't relaxed a single day since this hotel became a reality. It had been his existence for nearly thirty years. Fighting tooth and nail, clawing out of a pit of expectation, directing a show. He preferred an iron fist, but the princess was more comfortable with an encouraging word. It achieved almost the same result.

Charlie sighs heavily before pushing the door all the way open, steeling herself for what he assumes is some grand speech about friendship and forgiveness and being a better person. The idea does nothing to squash the urge to vomit. "Vox, hi! Wow, that's weird. I hadn't thought we'd have time for a conversation given everything that happened. But here you are! And here I am! Isn't that just great?"

Vox can feel the crushing weight on her chest. He can see it in her wavering smile that she also hadn't been sure any of them would make it out of that party alive. Their biggest difference was that they'd wanted wildly different outcomes. The tip of his tongue scrapes against his teeth, ready with viper precision to take this wannabe royal down a peg. Sinners wouldn't have trusted in her message without him. He was the catalyst, the source of her power. She should be thanking him, elevated to deity status without a single word. Just how lucky could one person get?

"Sure, babe. Great. Fantastic. Alastor isn't here, if you're missing your lackey. Maybe find some better chains so you don't lose him as easily, hm?" A caustic tongue rarely won him favors, but he wasn't feeling generous at the moment. Red leaked from the corner of his mouth, the call of a swirling hypnosis held off by better judgment. He hated feeling out of his element. Vox doubted the off kilter feeling was going away any time soon.

"Oh, no, I'm not looking for him. I'm here for you! I don't think breakfast was the best time to discuss your potential for redemption, but it's been a few hours, so I hoped you'd had more time to process it all? Alastor does love to drop surprises on us all. Have you given it any thought?" Charlie's tone is so jovial, hopeful in a way that Vox hadn't heard since their first meeting. Water under the bridge, she wanted to jump into the next best thing. His tongue tasted like ash.

"It's not going to happen, princess. My rap sheet of sins is so long it'd be better just to wait for the rapture. Holding hands and sharing secrets isn't going to be enough." The cords move him off the bed, the first time Vox had moved from it of his own accord. Everything is disorientating, new and foreign and threatening. Weak, pathetic, useless little Vincent. His mouth floods with saliva, and he has to swallow it down before he ruins Alastor's floor.

"I don't regret it, if that's what you came to ask. I don't regret a single damn moment. The weapon, the betrayal, the… finale. I'd do it again in a heartbeat if I thought it would end differently. Hell, even if it ended the same, I made that choice. I won't be belittled by some wannabe psychiatrist. You can't bullshit me."

Charlie's lips pursed into a short line, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Combative residents surely couldn't be a new concept to her, but maybe she'd not had to deal with his particular brand. The true manipulator, the rock bottom, the barely hanging on. As if her hands weren't full enough with the hundred of souls pouring in on the daily. Vox could hear the ruckus all the way up here, mingling voices and turning keys. Success was in her grasp.

She didn't need him. No one did. He was just a head, a screen, full of ideas and dreams that would never be realized.

"That's not what I'm trying to do, Vox. Not at all. After what happened this morning, I'm sure your emotions must be all over the place. Mine certainly are." The princess lets out a deep sigh, one hand pressing her bangs back in a calming manner. "But Alastor was right. I believe in forgiveness, in redemption. I believe any sinner can change. I can't exclude you from that just because we have… history."

That last word comes out more like a hiss, her hair swirling against her horns. A lashing flame fades before it can smack him in the face, but it gets her point across. "It starts with sorry. That won't be the end of it, and a lot of people are going to need some true change before they even consider forgiving you, but I don't think it's impossible."

Charlie slinks further into the room, approaching Vox like he's a feral raccoon, ready to bite and claw his way out. It not an unfair assessment, but he still doesn't appreciate being compared to an animal. Certainly not a mammal. "Why would I waste countless years chasing after an unachievable dream? I set my sights high, baby, but even I have limits," he spits. His cords are wound tight, ready to spring at a moments notice.

The sigh that slips past her lips is deep and long suffering, filled with words Vox couldn't begin to decode. He'd only scratched the surface in their documentary, and to be honest he hadn't heard anything he didn't want to hear. The royal family never held his interest, silver spoons and too much free time. He supposes that's all the things she's heard before. Still, her smile remains soft as she crouches in front of his trembling form, a gentle hand extended towards his screen.

"Maybe you were always meant for Heaven, but went about it the wrong way. You can still be holy, Vox. Just with less blood shed and more self reflection. We disagree on my mother's message to the people, but I think she'd still want you on her side. Heaven has backed down for now, but it may not last forever. With the right motivation, the people love you! The story doesn't have to end yet."

It's horrendously optimistic. Vox wants to bite through her sanguine fingers, let bitter deceit coat his tongue. She'd scream and cry, her little exorcist would storm the gates, and he'd finally be put out of his misery. It's not like this hotel can truly redeem them. Pentious was an outlier and should not be counted. Glancing up at her watery eyes, filled with so much determination and willingness to fix him, Vox can finally understand why Alastor stuck around.

Stupid doe eyes. Stupid princess voice. Stupid self sacrificing bullshit. She'd been willing to let herself fry if it meant Hell had half a chance. Of course her bleeding heart would decide the man who almost made it happen was worth her time. Vox's vocal processors churn with hesitation, fighting with his motherboard to form a cohesive thought. A few plugs extend towards an awaiting hand, curling around a slim wrist.

The princess doesn't hesitate to wrap her fingers around the slim cord, urging him closer to her. Vox can't stop the snarl that escapes him as he allows the guidance. Following orders, taking direction was a foreign concept to him. He was used to running the ship, manning the sails, avoiding the cliffs. Now he had to trust someone (or someones) to take the reigns.

Bile tickled his tongue as the Morningstar child pulled him in close. Her smile was saccharine, sweet and syrupy like a hefty stack of pancakes. Cradling him against her chest, Vox couldn't help but swallow thickly. Charlie's smile took on a different edge. "If you hurt my friends again, I will make sure the rest of your existence is worse than your wildest dreams."

A cold sweat broke over Vox's brow as he did his best to nod in her hands. The fire and brimstone that had taken over her eyes faded fast, a giggle taking over her body. Like a fizzing drink under too much pressure, she exploded. He barely had a chance to catch his breath before he was crushed under her arms, the room spinning rapidly around them. Great, just when he thought he was past the nausea.

"This is going to be incredible! You're going to fit in just great, I know it! Well, once people forget you tried to kill them all. But we can spin it! You won't regret this!" Charlie's squeal of excitement only serves to make his headache worse, static lacing his screen. Vox is starting to have a lot of regrets, and agreeing to this redemption arch is definitely one of them.

Valentino hadn't meant to sleep through the night, or most the next day. With the city reduced to rubble, sinners would be asking questions. Making demands. There were expectations, and Vox wasn't in a position to meet their impeccable standards. But pouring his power into a faulty weapon and nearly being scorched had taken a lot out of him. Press conferences could wait. His beauty sleep came first.

It shouldn't have been surprising to wake up alone. While many whores came and went from his bed, he rarely let them stay past their use. Vox usually rose before him, leaving him swaddled in plush blankets and fresh coffee. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, the room was a blur of color. He'd made his way back to his own suite, Shock.wav having destroyed most of Vox's penthouse. A layer of smoke clung to the floor, swirling in disturbed patterns that couldn't have come from him.

"Amorcito, really. You shouldn't be running around in your condition. One false move, and you'll be tasting the pavement!" Val tries to keep his tone jovial as he reaches for his glasses. If Vox thinks he's forgiven for his little stunt yesterday, he's got another thing coming. He was willing to kill them all for the fucking Radio Whore. After all these years, he thinks he's entitled to an apology and a sulk.

Glasses secured, Valentino blinks his eyes into focus. The smoke is still moving in a way that's disturbed, like someone had waltzed around without a care. Kitty was currently indisposed, Val had been dead to the world, so Vox was the only remaining culprit.

He shouldn't have needed the restroom in his current state. Food was also unlikely. Vox as a head had very basic needs. It wasn't often that his partner allowed him to be a part of his head exchange, but he'd seen the machines and blood, the recovery. Before a new body came online, Vox rarely needed most mortal comforts. His biology was a mystery to the overlord, but it did make caring for him after easier. When Val had tucked them both in last night, he'd expected Vox to be in the same position he pushed him in to — curled against his chest, tucked under his chin, snoring like a grandpa.

"Vox? What are you doing, baby?" Valentino tugs a robe over his shoulders as he saunters out of bed, hips swishing as he head out into the rest of the apartment. There's no sign of him in the living room, the kitchen, the dungeon. He'd even checked the goddamn linen closet. The television that wasn't mounted to the wall was gone. Vanished. The static hum that usually followed his lover was absent.

Valentino called Velvette immediately. It didn't matter what time it was, what she had been doing to try and salvage their image. She could run public relations all she wanted, as far as Valentino was concerned. Their third had disappeared in the dead of night without arms or legs, weak from his battle and foolish pursuit of glory. He was as good as dead if he made it to the streets where millions of sinners craved his demise.

"Bitch! Vox is gone! I had him tucked up against me and now he's nowhere to be found. Where the fuck is he?" He hates how frantic he sounds. Doomed to care about a mediocre white man, forever chasing his affection. Val had ripped Vox's head from his body, but it had been with care and precision. A heel to the chest could be precise. Whatever, the point is, their little betrayer had jumped ship.

"What? What do you mean he's gone? You said you had this handled!" Velvette's tone is waspish, jabbing right into Valentino's growing headache. He pinches his brow, glasses slipping down his subtle nose.

"I do! He shouldn't have been able to leave the fucking bed. You didn't see him leave, right?" He's going to pay for this later. Vel will never let him move on without a thorough thrashing. She was the best with words out of all of them, even if they usually got her in trouble. At least it was honest. There was enough fakery in Hell to last a millennia. "If he gets out—"

Velvette cuts him off, tongue sounding more thick in her mouth than usual. "If he got out, then he'll get what's coming to him. Find him. NOW." The call drops as screaming continues in the background. Of course he has to solve all their problems, just like before. A typical Tuesday for Valentino. He punches the coffee maker with more force than necessary, satisfied at the long suffering groan it lets out as the brewing starts. Velvette may have been a bust, but he can always phone the source of his problems.

Pink mug curled in his fist, he dials a familiar number.

Vox is settled in the princess's lap, eyes drooping with exhaustion. Between nearly killing all of Hell, being severed from his body, an emotional rollercoaster with his rival, and the promise of redemption, he was on his last legs. No legs. Fuck, not having a body was really confusing. Charlie had his screen pressed against her chest as she stared at a chess board, contemplating her next move. Vaggi was still glaring daggers at him, but seemed to care more about not losing to her girlfriend than tearing his face apart.

She inched a pawn forward when a ringing pierced the air. Vox jolted in her lap, startled by the sudden noise before realizing it had come from him. The tune danced through the air as Vox reached metaphorically for the popup. Valentino. He could practically taste the cotton candy smoke and acid words as the call rang out.

If someone said he looked up at Charlie for guidance, he'd spit in their face. Vox could make his own choices, even if they were shit. The way her bottom lip worried between her teeth was enough to know that she thought Vox shouldn't answer. If only it were that easy.

With a deep sigh, or maybe it was a hard swallow, he accepts the call. "Hey, baby. Where are you at? I woke up to a cold bed, and it nearly broke my heart," Valentino's voice seeped through, just as cloying and manipulative. Absence made the heart grow fonder, but Vox was losing his patience by the second. "We can fix this, papí. Running off with the first bimbo that flutters their eyelashes at you isn't going to put you back on top."

That roiling nausea settles back in Vox's mind as he realizes this is broadcast to the whole lobby, his partner's degradation and love shown in equal measure. "I didn't run off! You know I couldn't have left on my own, asshole. It's fine, I'm safe, I won't be bothering you or Vel." Bother. He was a curse upon them, slamming them back to the ground because he'd failed to ascend. Vox can barely grasp why Valentino would call him at all, let alone sound so desperate to have him back with the Vees. Charlie's arm tightens around his head, tugging him closer to her waist.

"So you're not in the tower? What the fuck, Vox? Hell wants your head on a pike and you're just gallivanting around like you didn't try to kill us all? They're going to eat you alive." Whatever sweetness that lingered in Valentino's tone was overwhelmed by vicious mockery. Heaven was out of reach, his friends hated him, and his only support was hoping he'd fail so they could tear him apart. Sorry, his ass.

"It's not like that, Val. Think of it as a sabbatical. You get total control, and I get to rest and recuperate. A win-win, right, buddy? Voxtek doesn't want me around anyway. I can feel the contracts pulling as we speak. They'll need new leadership, and there's a contract with your name on it." Vox knew the lies would get him much further than the truth, but bile still corroded his throat as he pushed forward. The princess's heart was pounding against the back of his head, spurring him on. "We both know I'm too broken."

The silence on the other end is deafening. Considering, contemplating cutting his loses with Vox and setting him free, letting him fall into someone's lap. The few squeaks that follow are precious, tugging at his heartstrings, reminding him he's human. God, he loved those ridiculous noises, the soft chirps. What was he supposed to do without them? "Never, baby. Where are you? I'll send a car—"

Vox cuts the call abruptly, letting his face fall into darkness. He doesn't trust his eyes, his grimace not to give him away immediately. How can he be so comfortable in the princess's arms while also knowing Valentino's embrace? How is he meant to choose between Velvette's violent caress and Alastor's mocking touch? His choices were clearly a disgusting part of his downfall.

He wants to run. He wants to hide. He wants to bury himself so deeply into the earth that no one will think of him for thousands of years. Unfortunately, that's not the life he gets to live. Instead, he's forced to hyperventilate in the lap of royalty, all of his fears immediately presented to him. It's almost laughable how easily he cracks. That veneer he'd forced for decades crumbling like a cheap imitation of something more. Tears cling to the back of his throat, choking him on regret and remorse —

"It's okay. You'll be okay. One moment doesn't write your entire story." Charlie's words may be soft and murmured, but they manage to rock Vox's entire world.

Chapter Text

Vox hasn't felt this fried since he was actually shocked to death.

Being in the Hazbin Hotel is an adjustment that he takes less than gracefully. There's been a lot of stern words and screaming, threats, quite a few explosions. Sparks jump from his rabbit ears nearly constantly, alerting him to a potential murderer or igniting with his indignation at being subjected to the princess's games. A room had been made for him by Alastor's smaller thrall, the Adam Slayer. The number of cockroaches mounted to the wall with needles was certainly… homey. He'd gone to one group therapy session with Husker leading, and they'd almost lost that conference room to exploding cards and singed wallpaper. Vox may not be at his strongest, but he's still got power stored in this form.

Bringing up Angel Dust had been a low blow, but the chimera wouldn't stop laying into him about how much of a failure he was and he just —

Snapped.

Now the Morningstar child has him propped in a chair on the other side of a desk, trying her best to look severe. It's not as effective as her demonic form, but she looks less like sparkles and cotton candy. The fallen angel glaring at him over her shoulder adds to the intimidation just a bit. But Vox didn't become CEO of one of Hell's largest companies by backing down, so he meets her eyes with defiance. He's still a shark, after all, both in business and in form.

"Property damage is kind of par for the course at this point, given Cherri's, uh, enthusiasm when it comes to bombs. But actively starting fights is frowned upon. I understand that there's going to be a lot of growing pains and people," Charlie says, and Vox can't help but stick his tongue out her girlfriend, "aren't going to be thrilled to have you around all the time. You need to be in better control of your emotions, not let people get to you so easily.

"Criticism seemed like it was pretty normal for you, considering everything with the Vees. Husk could have handled himself better, and I'll be discussing it with him, but forgiveness is a two way street. If you stand a shot at redemption, we've got to curb some of the hostility. Maybe try not frying the decor?" Charlie sounds so genuine, and Vox had come to realize during their previous interviews just how much she believed in her idea, but being subjected to it directed towards him is still giving him whiplash.

"If redemption means I have to become some brainless creature that can't defend itself, hard pass," Vox sneers. His frown is so deep it spills off his screen. "The damn cat started it. If he wasn't insulting me like it was how he breathed, I wouldn't have brought up Angel Dust at all. It was all useless in the end. Maybe pets shouldn't be kept in the hotel." There's a rage building in the back of circuits, hot and deep. A wisp of smoke seeps from his vents. "This is pointless."

Charlie's lips purse, a heavy sigh wheezing through her nose. "It's not pointless, Vox. We know it works, but nothing will change unless you believe yourself capable of it. Clinging to old wounds is what led to this situation in the first place. Maybe it's time to move on for the better."

Vox can feel his metaphysical heart stop. Old wounds. Reducing all his pain and suffering and sacrifice to a failed partnership. Well, fuck this and fuck her. "If my liaison with Heaven was an immense failure, then I suppose I learned from the best, didn't I, Charlie?" His voice is barely his own, synthesized for maximum effect, and it grates on his nerves. A live wire ready to ignite the flames.

The princess looks stricken, tears welling in her eyes almost immediately. Her bottom lip wobbles, and Vaggi looks ready to jab her angelic spear through his screen once and for all. Good. At least he won't have to feel all these emotions anymore. What was a never ending malice to a dead man? Well, Hell, he supposed, but to a dead sinner? Eternal, blissful nothingness.

Vox jumps from the chair, feeling hairline fractures starting the edges of his screen. He needs a better way to get around than hopping with his neck stump, but that problem comes later. Right now, he wants nothing more to be as far as away from the hope of redemption as he can be. Running back to his own decrepit room, stale and full of bugs, was the easiest on his sore neck. Ground floor, easy access to most rooms due to his limited mobility. Vox wanted to scoff at how thoughtful it was, but instead he ends up face down in the middle of the hard twin bed he's been assigned.

His emotions are one of the last things that had kept him at least somewhat human in the end. Everyone thought of him as a machine, capable of going infinitely without much need. Eating, sleeping, bathing were all optional to a man with a body like his, cold and hard, steel and bio engineered skin. He could run for weeks on nothing but a good charge and endless coffee. Newer sinners thought him more like an intelligent program than a once human. When he was at the top, it had worked for him. Fearless, composed, productive. His heart was synthetic, for fuck's sake.

Quelling his emotions would be as good as admitting he was nothing more than a machine. He could survive without his body, everything important being stored in his head. Upgrade after upgrade, newer models and better sound, decades of growth, Vox had refused to let his emotions be deleted by lines of code and faulty wiring. It was meticulous, calculated down to the last detail. Emotion had kept him grounded for a long time, forced him to come to his senses when Hell offered him plans of grandeur.

And then Alastor fell off the face of the planet for seven years, and Vox lost his mind.

During that time, Vox had considered just turning off his emotional processors. His moods swung wildly, jumping from white hot rage to desperation as fast as he could flit between radio frequencies. His friend enemy couldn't have died. They were both far too stubborn to be taken down by anything other than each other. Vox's hope had almost driven him mad. Those first few weeks, he'd spent more time as a spark in the wiring than in his physical form, jumping between locations with haste in case he missed something.

Valentino had pinned him to the wall and spit in his face as he dressed him down, spouting off about how much he'd missed him and how terrible it was to run everything by himself. Velvette wouldn't join the Vees until a year later. Vox had fried the moth, leaving him slumped against the floor before jumping back into the grid. Remorse was never one of his strongest feelings, and he hadn't felt it then. He barely felt it now. The first three months had been a mess for him and his business, missed launches and public displays of madness tainting their image. Val making breakup posts had only spurred the decent.

By month five, he'd collapsed in the middle of the Doomsday District. He'd tapped into every last bit of energy he'd fed into Pentagram City, choking the power grid with a rigid first until neither could take it anymore. Hell went dark for days. Vox's physical form laid prone in an alley, tucked so deep beneath weeks of trash that no soul found him. When he finally came back online nearly a week later, his mouth tasted of garbage and rot had settled in to his skin. Val had nearly thrown him right back out of the tower when he turned up, threatening to close the dumpster lid on his head.

Despite what the rest of the populace thought, that had been their first kiss. They'd played up their closeness for the cameras, occasionally had drinks behind the scenes, danced around each other for decades. Vox wasn't ready, had never been ready to give away his heart and have it stomped on in front of his face, laughter echoing in an empty bar. Valentino offered, sure, propositioned him at every meeting and video shoot. They'd barely started cuddling during their movie nights, Vox tucked under the moth's wing, head in Val's lap. Kissing had been off the table, until Vox stumbled in with pasta stuck to his antennae and unknown stains from head to toe. Messy, horrible, and desperate.

Vox poured his emotions into Val for a few years after that. Lavish dates to the most expensive restaurants in Hell. Gifts on the daily, bags filled with shoes and jewels and alcohol. Designed the best drugs with stolen Sloth formulations. Whatever the man wanted, Vox was eager to give. They were the power couple that threatened to take the crown from Lucifer and his wife, especially since she'd gone missing at a similar time. Their ratings balanced out, Velvette joined their crew, and the Vees became unstoppable.

The hole in Vox's heart never healed.

Valentino knew exactly what would happen that day he revealed to Vox that Alastor was back. Every nerve felt raw, like they had been awaken from a slumber they didn't choose. Electricity surged, licking at his claws and teeth. Anger came first, then disbelief. There was no way Alastor could return and he wouldn't have caught it. Where was he? Cameras confirmed what Valentino had taunted him with, and the rest led to a public meltdown and darkness spread through the city. Just before his crash, he can remember both hope and hopelessness battling in his chest.

Vox had never turned off his emotional processes because they were his link to Alastor. He could have been more ruthless, more terrible, more tyrannical without his lingering need to impress his first friend in Hell. Without his need for vindication, his plan would have worked. Taking over Heaven, becoming God, worship and all of eternity to put his plans into motion were destroyed by some stupid deer who laughed in his face and Vox had always been vengeful.

He hated how his teeth clenched at the simple mention of his rival. Liquid crystal fracturing every time Valentino pressed his lips against his. Gills fluttered ruthlessly, keeping him afloat as he struggled to understand how he was supposed to continue on. No matter what information he took in, how many sources he devoured, whatever camera angle he managed to capture the freak from, it never made sense. Alastor was back, without a word to him, and seemed to be thriving in some altruistic nonsense.

Vox had cheered for his downfall, praised the angels as they tore through Hell's defenses. He'd encouraged Vel and Val to get involved in his jeers, hoping the Great Extermination would spur something in them. He had decades on them, many years spent scrambling to the top. Claws and teeth, gnawing and horrible as he climb higher and higher. No matter what they all liked to say, Vox had earned his space among the Overlords. Soul snatching, violent deals, new ideas. He'd flooded Hell with something greater than himself, which was rare for a sinner. A being of pure energy and ambition was a great way to destroy complacency.

After the initial shock of discovering he had a television for a head, the power that teemed from his palms couldn't wait to make itself known. Currents arched between cyan talons, sending tingles up his spine. The citizens of Hell would know his name, his face, and they were helpless to stop it. Vox couldn't wait to turn it all on its head, show them what they had been missing. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; for the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.

Bile laced the back of his throat, disgusting and volatile. The church had suffocated him with their holy script, left him to gag on words he never would have believed. They'd warned of his wrongness, unnatural, filled with sin he didn't choose. He'd been damned the moment he was born. If that was how Heaven ran their ship, what God expected of him even if he'd built him wrong, than fuck them all. Hell had much more to offer.

A few cables assist in flipping his screen over so Vox can face the ceiling, glaring heavily at the vivid red that coats everything here. Tacky. Tasteless. Not enough blue. He misses his office, his sharks, his penthouse. He misses Velvette and her snark, Shock.wav and his big smile. Val… he does miss Valentino, as well. Gentle caresses and sweet words, sassy comments and violent rage. It's a lot less fun when that last one is directed at him, but he's always had a thing for people who can kick his ass.

A deep sigh fills the air, staticky and uneven. What was he doing here? Alastor had whisked him away in the dead of night, offered him some harebrained idea of redemption, and then abandoned him to the princess and her pet project with a smirk. It had been days since he'd spoken to the hotelier, since they'd gotten him his own room and key, and Vox can't remember when he'd last seen him or his shadows flitting around.

Al's newfound freedom was treating him well, Vox guessed. No more chains keeping him back, nothing to keep him in line but his own moral compass. He knew that Alastor had been in the hotel, still committed to helping Charlie with her dream, but Vox had missed him at every chance. All of his movements were more sluggish these days, between the hopping and wiggling. Trying to jump into the electrical currents took more out of him as the days passed and his soul contracts fractured. Turns out deals in Hell were just about as capitalistic as Earth, and he wasn't able to pay up. The other Vees definitely weren't looking into his contracts right now, still too angry with him and trying to fix all the shit he'd broken in his conquest.

If his power was going to start fading, he needed to get on top of making a new body. There had to be at least one bioengineer or mad scientist that still thought he was worth their time. Vox could do some impressive things with his cords, but they didn't have the dexterity for the finer parts of circuitry or binding nerves. Alastor had mentioned Baxter at some point, hadn't he? Fish guy, small, smart. The one who muted him. Fuck, that would be a tough sell, but he's got nothing to lose, right?

A subtle tapping breaks his spiral. It's annoying which how rhythmic it sounds, until Vox begins to recognize a pattern he hasn't heard in decades. Dash, dot, dash, dot. Dash, dash, dot, dash. A sequence Vox had sent out ad nauseam for years before he finally disabled his morse code transmitter. An invitation for conversation. If it hadn't played in his mind for almost a decade, he may have forgotten the code altogether.

"Come in." Vox's voice betrays him, sounding just as wrecked as he feels. He gulps, not letting his eyes leave the suspicious stain on the ceiling. Is it more like a rabbit getting chewed on by a wolf or a clown fish playing in an anemone? He hasn't decided quite yet.

The door swings open with a creak. Vox forces his eyes shut, wanting a moment more to pretend like his world hasn't fallen apart so spectacularly. Teeth sink into his bottom lip, liquid crystals spilling into his mouth. They taste oddly like ozone, a bit of salt, but mostly plasma. He knows his mechanical blood is similar since he'd designed it to be so. Choking on his own crystals sounds better than whatever is about to come his way now that the Radio Demon is lurking in his doorway.

A record scratch is enough for him to know how terrible he must look right now. Darkened screen laid out pathetically against a blanket he can barely use, screen leaking rainbow squares, tired eyes closed tight like the monster won't be able to see him if he can't see it. Pathetic. Last week he'd been the strongest sinner in Hell by the princess's own words. Vox wished it hadn't turned immediately into his downfall.

"What do you want, Al?" Vox won't give him the satisfaction of seeing him vulnerable yet again. There's teeth in his words, sharp and venomous. Coiled and ready to strike at the first sign of attack.

"Charlotte was in quite a tizzy after you left, old pal. No matter how many times she deals with adversity, she remains fragile. It's just as much her fault as it is yours. However, I was asked to speak with both yourself and Husker about the incident since I 'know you both better'. Utterly ridiculous, but who am I to deny the Princess of Hell?" Alastor's voice is less bombastic than he'd usually enter with. Almost like he knows Vox's head is pounding, pain lacing through every signal. His punishment for feeling so much, he supposed. Heightened emotions tended to leave him miserable, head threatening to split in two.

"I'm not going to apologize," Vox states, petulant. It doesn't matter that he knows he's fucked up. Husker had gone for the throat. Kitty cat can't be mad that he had done so in return. Angel Dust being back with Valentino wasn't even his idea. Vox would have thrown him to the curb in a heartbeat if Val wasn't insistent on keeping the contract. The porn studio had outgrown Angel decades ago, but he'd always been the moth's favorite. When Vox had met Val, Angel had been perched in his lap. There was a history there that Vox hadn't managed to pull out all the years they'd been together. He had no say in their contract, or their relationship as Val had made very clear.

Alastor hummed, stepping deeper into the room. It was bare, not a single personal touch to be seen. The sheets were standard issue. The walls still had the hideous apple wallpaper. Not a piece of technology in sight. Guest were encouraged to change their spaces, to make it a home, or so he'd been told by the Morningstar brat when she'd settled him in. Vox hadn't taken that to heart. This was a glorified halfway house, only elevated because it was halfway between Heaven and Hell. No sense in getting comfortable. They wouldn't want him for long.

"My dear Husker did lay it on thick, I've heard. He even grumbled something like an apology when I spoke to him earlier, without so much as a threat! Mood swings are quite terrible when one is trying to quit alcohol and deal with heartbreak." Alastor's tone is neutral, radio overlay just barely there. A faint level of divide while he decides if bringing Vox here was a mistake or not, if he's still worth his time. Vox almost wants to prove that he's not, that he's broken beyond repair, that he'd rather be the last sinner in Hell while everyone else gets redeemed just so he never has to see that judgment again. "But Charlotte is concerned."

Vox growls at the ceiling before propping himself up on his cables. It hurts, but it's better than being eighteen inches tall and resting on his neck. "She's concerned because I won't become a little puppet she can string along, dancing through her redemption plan because apparently that's what I owe all of Hell. Fuck that." His left eyes swirls, hypnotic and predatory. Even if he's not aiming to create a mindless horde, it still works as an intimidation tactic. Unless the subject is the Radio Demon and helped him develop the technique ages ago.

"You're projecting, my dear. Charlotte is far less manipulative than any soul you'll find in this pit. While her words and actions may not always match her true intent, she does believe that all souls are capable of redemption. A rigid set of truths of how that can be achieved has been absolved from her mind. Every path is personal, and therefore she takes it personally. Both a charm and a fault, but Charlie has never been anything less than duality personified," Alastor states calmly, stepping closer until his knees are touching the edge of the bed.

Vox tries to push himself up further, just a bit of height advantage, but it pushes his cords to the extreme, bends them uncomfortably, and he's forced to retreat. This was worse than his original sinner form. At least then he'd been able to get himself out of a sticky situation. Now, he wasn't sure if he'd end up choking on his own blood if he tried to jump into the grid. Maybe he'd be stolen by the currents, lost to the endless flow. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with all this…

This.

"Well, she's wasting her time! I like it here. I love being at the top of Hell's society. I survived there for years, making bigger and brighter things, improving life for sinners. The people loved me, even before the takeover. I fought for this, climbed for this, killed for this. Godhood was within my grasp and — and—,"

"And you couldn't let go of the past long enough to realize you already had exactly what you wanted."

Alastor's words send a shock of ice through his minuscule body. Snowflakes collected in the corners of his screen, fans suddenly clogged with the ice that flowed through his veins. "Your dreams have always been fantastical, Vincent. Being God would have left you even more lonely than you feel now. Paranoia and regret would have ended your reign before any sort of uprising could have commenced."

Okay, ouch. His rival reminding him of his self esteem issues was not making him feel better about anything. "Heaven doesn't deserve to be the good guys! They don't give a shit what kind of life we had, or what we had to do to survive. They don't care that we're born queer, or that half the world isn't any variety of Christian. They don't care about this things we can't change. The system is fucking rigged, and I won't play along." Vox is panting with an effort to keep himself upright, but he refuses to let his glare drop.

Alastor hums, thoughtful. "Whatever you were in life, Vincent, cannot possibly compare to your life in Hell. If my math is correct, you've been in this pit longer than you lived. Repenting for what you had done in life is going to pale in comparison to what you've managed to do as an Overlord, but it may prove fruitful. If we can tip the scale of redemption in your favor, balance your human and hellish sins, then perhaps you're not as far off as you think."

Vox blinked up at the Radio Demon, thrice in rapid succession. Seriously? He still thought this was possible? "What?" It spilled from his lips with little grace, but he thinks he can be forgiven for that. With seventy years in Hell, he's certain there's more than a few horrors linked to him. Does Heaven care what they've done beyond their mortal lives? Was someone watching their every hellish move? Acid rolled in Vox's stomach, churning violently in a way that threatened to make an appearance. "You can't be serious. That's… That's insane!"

Alastor's grin widened, splitting his face in two, curling beyond his hairline. "Insanity is a specialty of mine, you'll do well to remember." Antlers curled towards the ceiling, prongs sinking into the walls. Charlie was going to be upset by the property damage. Vox couldn't help but find it terribly attractive. "If we can make a list of your sins, alive and dead, we can better chart a course for redemption. What do you say, old pal?" His hands were pressed to the edge of Vox's mattress, forcing the Media Overlord to balance on his flimsy cords. Their faces were mere inches apart by the time Vox balanced himself.

No. He would not be ruined by old emotions creeping in. Vox had burned them long ago, along with the letter and rare photographs, scripts and compositions. If he was going to give himself over to this hotel, this naive idea of redemption, then he couldn't let himself cling to the one thing in Hell that would remain a constant. Alastor belonged in Hell, was at his strongest and best when he could rule it with an iron fist. The man was about to thrive, hungry and feral after so many years behind bars. Alastor would never want him, not in the way he wanted, not when he could have all of Hell in his palm.

If Vox wanted redemption, he'd have to give up Alastor.

He's not sure any soul is strong enough to give him up.

Chapter Text

Vox was well aware that he had a problem.

If that problem had a name, it would be Alastor, and it was likely terminal. He'd had decades, far longer than most earthly relationships, to tackle this problem. He could have murdered the man at his weakest, after Adam. He could have spit in his face when he'd cornered him in an alley, freshly fallen and teeming with electricity. He could have kissed him in that bar, made his intentions clear, heart pupils and pink blush. Instead, he had decades of bitterness to cling to, laughter and harsh words that still rang in his ears. Vox could be a man of the future, but letting go of the past was something his code continued to reject.

Alastor was embedded in his design, in every line, buried so deep in his processes that removing him would cause enough errors to send Vox into a permanent blue screen. As much as he craved to be the Radio Demon's demise, it would be a mutually assured destruction. Vox could not exist without Al, and, he'd like to think, the same was reversed. He had nearly executed his emotions and gave in to a series of ones and zeros because his… whatever was gone. It was harder to believe that Alastor would feel the same pit in his stomach should Vox leave this realm.

The buck was ruthless. Overlords were left dead in alleys, voices ripped from their throats. He was a terror, a force to be reckoned with, an entertainer to the worth of them all. The man despised self loathing, enjoyed manipulation, and squashed down any inkling that he wasn't the strongest sinner in Hell. Vox had challenged him, risen fast and hard, only to be slammed back into the ground. The message was clear; Alastor would remain on top as long as he possibly could, and he was smart enough to make other sinners believe he didn't need to try.

All this to say, the list presented before Vox feels like an insult. Seriously? 'List your sins in life, and in death. What could you do to redeem yourself? Big or small, redemption is for all!' If Vox had a proper nose, it would have been wrinkled into his brow. The princess must not have dealt with a sinner with a significant list of sins before. Where did he even begin…

"Where would you like to start, Picture Box?" Alastor's grin was wide, splitting into his hairline. If he had ears beneath the horrible bob, they'd be ruined by yellowed teeth. Vox was wrapped in a nest of cords, curled tightly around his neck like a slumbering snake. Sparks danced along the shells, arching in restless patterns. Vox had decided that explaining it all to Charlie would be too much. The princess came from Hell, sure, but she was clearly sheltered for most of her life. The hotel exposed he to a variety of people, but Vox was one of a kind.

He hadn't requested Alastor specifically for this assignment, but an agreement had been reached. Vox's less than appetizing actions could be tolerated by the cannibal more than anyone else, and less judgment was likely to be passed given their history. Fat chance. Alastor had always loved a reason to tear him to shreds. Teeth worrying his false lip, he found it harder to meet Alastor's eyes. The man knew at least some of what he'd done in life and after, but laying it all before him, without the buffer of a lie? That was pure torture.

Charlie had made it very clear that lying was out of the question. Boundaries were fine, refusal to answer was acceptable, but outright lies? Disappointment. Watery eyes. A quivering lip that would follow him for weeks. He really hated how effective it was. So effective that he was now stuck confessing all of his sins to the man that had his guts between his teeth two weeks ago. Vox wasn't allowed to wonder about how he tasted on Alastor's tongue, acidic and volatile, corrosive. He refused to believe Alastor could taste the desire in his blood.

"How am I supposed to know? Do you want the worst first? Or am I meant to start slow and work my way up? Charlie wasn't very clear." Vox knew he was being snippy, that it wouldn't work on the biggest cunt in all of Hell, but he couldn't lower his defenses yet.

Alastor let out a melodic hum, tapping his chin in interest. A simple notepad rested in his lap, pen tapping at the seam. "Why not start from the beginning and work our way out. It will give a better understanding of your character, I'm sure, or whatever is left of it." The curl at the end of his smile wasn't quite right, didn't hold a candle to his iridescent grins of the past, but it wasn't as menacing as he'd seen before a broadcast. If he was screaming today, it would be for Alastor alone. "What is your earliest memory?"

Vox wished he could swallow his tongue. Instead, he was taped to a chaise lounge, giving a facsimile of relaxation. Psychiatry must have moved past this sort of treatment, but Alastor wouldn't have know. He wouldn't care. Perhaps it would be beneficial to remind the princess that plenty of educated and licensed psychiatrists also ended up in Hell, even if they abused their qualifications. Mr. Lecter had done well for himself, even without Vox's influence. A hint of murder didn't make the advice any less valuable.

"I'm in church, Sunday morning. Sat in my mother's lap, I remember the pastor ranting about the rapture. His wrinkled face was red, beet red, like he couldn't catch his breath. He really believed in the shit he was spouting, you know? I was, what, four or five? And this man was screaming at me, at all of us with such vindication. I cried, loud and desperate, interrupted the whole sermon. The church hated me well before that, but that was their first sign that I was the devil come back to haunt them."

Alastor scribbles down notes as he speaks. Vox grinds his teeth, pixels on the verge of bursting.

"What is the first sin you remember committing?"

Vox ponders. It must have come at a young age, well before he grew into his more violent tendencies. God didn't like to be questioned, and Vincent was a curious soul. His demanded his questions be answered, and if an adult couldn't provide, then their intelligence must not be adequate. "Blasphemy."

Alastor's eyebrow quirks, surpassing his bangs. "Oh, really?"

"They had told me God loves all his creations. One day, in a Wednesday morning study, I said that I thought that was untrue. How could he love us all while still damning those he made to Hell? Didn't go over well. The teacher said any soul God had actually made was fine. But those who were made by Lucifer himself? Even before they were born? Damned. I didn't see how that was fair, and I told her as much. Didn't go over well in the church, let me tell you."

The end of the pen is held between Alastor's teeth, sharp and violent. Vox wants it to be his lips. Fuck, he has to stop —

"So religion, at least the traditional, no longer held an appeal. What follows?"

What had followed was many years of teenage rebellion. Vox had done his best in his younger years, striving to be the perfect student, the perfect example of God. It didn't make his parents love him any more. As he got older, and the influences became more vocal, the words of the church mattered less. He didn't have friends, but he was desperate for them. After so long spent alone, and now disillusioned to his parent's words, he sought companions in those his age. Normal, sure, for most. For him, detrimental to an astonishing degree. "Drugs. My late teens and early twenties are a blur."

Vox tries to swallow, but the dryness of his throat makes him want to scream. Every word feels like sandpaper on his tongue, listless and dragging against his palette. "Shawn. He handed me my first line of coke back in the late 30s. I had never felt more alive. I could do anything. Words flowed from me like a fountain. Those who mocked me finally found me funny, enjoyed my presence. I could persuade them. They didn't care that I was the antichrist the whole church feared. They only cared for what I could give them, and I did my best to make sure I was in supply.

"Mingling with the crowds was so much easier after a bump. Suddenly, everyone's joy was my joy. All of their problems were my problems. I could be any of them, the jilted wife, a down on their luck fish salesman, a failed entrepreneur. I just assumed whatever personality gained the most sympathy. The church was a great place for it. Very few questions, and a whole pot of money at the end of every sermon for the saddest sap. I played pathetic with the best of 'em."

Alastor's brows furrowed as he scribbled against the pad of paper, and was that a doodle? He couldn't get a good angle from his reclined position, but it sure looked liked a crude drawing of him weeping at Alastor's feet. He'd never had the pleasure of attempting therapy in life, but he was pretty sure this wasn't normal.

"A truly pitiable life, fishing for the lowest of the low. But you crawled out of the pit of sympathy, didn't you?"

"I became a weather man," Vox states, before he bites off his tongue and spits it against Alastor's shoes.

"This is about sins, right?"

"Well, yes, I suppose it is."

"Then my next sin jealousy." That, Vox remember vividly. He'd been a weather man with the local station for months, garnering respect from the patrons and professionals alike. The Washington D.C. Metropolitan area was vast, and that meant eyes were always on him. Thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of people, relied on him for their daily weather forecast. He took great pride in providing a thorough, accurate review. Day by day, he read the reports and translated them into something the average man could appreciate. No empty promises or false hope.

His fellow reporters, however, were filled with lies. Besides the obvious fact that they were both having an affair with each other, they never concerned themselves with facts. Making out in a supply closet while their spouses tended the children at home corroded their morals, made them complacent to the queue cards behind the cameras. Every commercial break was filled with longing glances and linked feet under the desk.

Vincent almost broke his pointing stick on more than one occasion. Why did these assholes get to be the face of the station, fan mail and positive reviews, while he got a single minute of air? These hacks lacked personality and gumption, not an ounce of ambition to be seen. Hollow, vapid words, with no inflection or emphasis to be seen. He could do so much better. The people would trust him.

"Jealousy was quickly followed by murder. Playing the long game had never been my style, and even if I was sober at that point, I fried all of my patience. I decided I was done being a background character in other people's lives and forced my way to the front." Slitting throats and stealing roles hadn't been difficult. He didn't care much about the lives he took. It wasn't like they were doing much for society. Vox had done more in his short few decades than all of Hollywood had managed since his death. "There's a lot of blood on my hands."

"Hmmm, interesting. You have always been quite willing to get your hands dirty. Why, I remember those claws coated in the intestines of a fish sinner as you gutted him in the streets! He did made for a delicious dinner, even if you didn't partake. Was it because he made a pass at me, or because his moisture fogged your screen, I wonder?" Alastor's grin was twisting into his eyes, cat like and mischievous.

Vox glared at his "therapist" from the corner of his eyes. The tape prevented him from moving his head, which was more annoying than it was helpful. He'd never felt less relaxed in his life. "It was because he made a pass at you," Vox tried, hoping to throw the Radio Demon off his game. Blatant flirting usually was met with a blurt of static and pinned ears. This Alastor merely blinked at him, unimpressed. He guessed he'd have to try harder. "I could do so much better. Who in Hell does the corny 'did you fall from heaven' line? Amateur."

"Oh? You think you could have done better?" Alastor's smirk was curling into his hair, wicked and vengeful. If Vox had hands, he would have slapped it off his stupid face. "Go ahead, Picture Box. Lay it on me."

Well. This definitely wasn't a part of normal therapy, but who was he to judge? "Hey, baby. Come here often?" He slips into his most sultry tone, smarmy grin lacing his features.

Alastor only raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And that works for you? How unfortunate for your partners."

Sparks raced up Vox's antennae, arcing in violent blue streaks. "Oh, fuck off, you celibate freak. You wouldn't know flirting if it shoved its way up your ass and called you pretty."

"So you think I'm pretty?" Alastor's smirk never wavered. If anything, it grew more confident under his antagonizing. Vox wished the butterflied in his stomach would just die already. It had been decades, so many lonely nights of pining. Why would he care what the Radio Demon thinks? He built an entire brand on how much he doesn't.

He chooses to ignore the taunting and move on to the next thing. "I kept going. Climbing my way up with murder and schmoozing. No one suspected a thing. Presenters died from all sorts of things back then, and I was the best possible candidate to fill the role. Bodies piled up, and the police were too idiotic to figure it all out."

If Alastor noticed his diversion, he let it pass with grace. "But luck ran out, I suppose? Rarely do souls in Hell achieve all their goals in life. You act like a man chasing dreams."

Fucking prick. "During my final broadcast, a full studio audience at the aquarium, right in front of the shark tank, a television fell on my head. There were dozens of them strung up on the ceiling. I'd paid a bunch of men to make sure they were in place and ready to broadcast the demise of my followers. Electrocution, short and sweet. If I'd lived, I would have sued them so fast, but the one that fell on my head decided to become a part of me. I've been like this ever since."

Alastor had been the first soul to find him in Hell. If he'd been confused, it didn't show. Alastor's hand had extended into his vision before he's been able to focus on all the red or the fluffy ears. They've both decided to forget the vomit Vox had spilled on Alastor's shoes. "You know the rest, I think. At least the first few decades. Even after you left, I don't think I did much that Heaven would hate that wasn't already on my ledger."

"So we're ignoring the tax evasion? Selfishness? Gossip? All that power and money? Honestly, Vox, is there a moment of your life that wasn't filled with sin?" The grin that's settled into the corners of Alastor's mouth does something to his stomach, and he chooses to believe it's nausea.

"Those aren't sins! Those are, like, moral failings. Do those seriously count?"

"According to the late Sir Pentious and other guests, yes. Even simple disobedience can lead to eternal damnation. It turns out the pearly gates are locked up tight if a single lie has grace your lips. And they wonder why Hell is so overpopulated!"

Vox's proverbial stomach flipped. It wasn't even the ten commandments shit that damned a soul? They were adding in extra rules. How was murder on the same level as taking the Lord's name in vain? All sinners ended up in the Pride ring, regardless of what landed them in the pit. Was he seriously sharing space with someone who loved their partner just a bit too much, or a depressed soul who wasn't able to climb out of bed in life? Lame.

"Lame. So not only am I trying to repent for the murder of five douche bags, but I have to apologize for calling Katie a hack because she stumbled over her lines? How the fuck does anyone make it to Heaven?" Vox struggles against the tape, wriggling against the chaise. If his entire fucking life hadn't been a level playing field, how as he supposed to be remorseful for his actions in Hell? He'd been primed for this endless suffering before he knew how to breathe.

Alastor's hum was long, drawn out as he reach forward to press Vox back against the fabric. "So it would seem, my dear. Judgment is meant for God alone, supposedly, and you may just be one of the most judgmental bitches I know. Not to mention the depravity of all varieties. I'm sure all the men falling to their knees before you didn't help your situation."

Vox could feel his screen heating, a vibrant blue tinting his cheeks. It was hard to say if it came from Alastor's words or the fact that his hand was still on his cheek. "If every queer ended up in Hell, then I'm glad. Heaven can't be throwing good parties or giving good advice. They don't have the honesty or the skin for it." His voice is more a hiss, tongue lashing and horrible. His wannabe therapist barely bats an eye, laughing at his dramatics.

"Yes, I'm sure Heaven is awash with the more bland and boring souls. How else would they manage to keep them all in line? Why, they probably don't even know they're subject to the propaganda! Until your little broadcast, most of the winners were unaware that an exorcism was even occurring. Well done!" Vox's heart stutters in his chest. Alastor seems genuinely proud of him, perhaps for the first time he can remember in seventy years. His throat had never felt more dry, like sandpaper had replace his windpipe.

"Getting comfortable is a death sentence," he says, monotone. Perhaps Vox and God were more similar than he thought. Manipulative, judgmental, rigid. Forcing people to conform to their ideals lest they wanted to deal with consequences. Would it have changed anything if Vox had succeeded? Heaven and Hell, blended and perfect. Virtue and sin at every fingertip, like a second life. Longer, freer, more advantages. It still seemed like a great plan to him.

"And what the of false idols, Picture Box? You wanted to be GOD. Not an easy transgression to waltz over, I'm sure. Whether in life or death, you entertained the idea that you were the greatest being in all of existence. You would have had statues made in your honor, prayers and poetry dedicated to you. Would God forgive your ego?" A darkness creeps over Alastor's face, adding an edge of intimidation. They've played this game too many time for Vox to be scared.

"I would be an excellent ruler. Hell was ready to submit to me. If you weren't… you, I would have succeeded. Heaven would have caved, Hell would have bowed, and I would be the most powerful being any realm had ever seen. Instead, I had my head ripped from my body and then had my head stolen by a sociopath who wants to subject me to torture most haven't even heard of."

"You mean group therapy," Alastor states, smirk curling the corners of his smile.

"I mean group therapy. Whoever invented that shit better be down here, forced to share their fucking feelings until their esophagus ruptures." He's not feeling very generous right now.

"And what of a wife? Children? A family? You betrayed them just as easily as all your followers?"

If he hadn't known better, he'd think Alastor sounded bitter. Was it jealousy for an imagined family he'd created in his head, or vindication for the sort of man he suspected Vox was? His rival's emotions flipped on a dime, calm and explosive within the same sentence. He wanted his screen to remain in tact, but one wrong word could see him blinded and broken.

"No wife. No children. After I left home, the only thing I cared about was work. A family would have gotten in the way, forced my hand, split my interests. There were offers, but I never took them. I wouldn't have been a good husband, not back then." Maybe I could be now is a horrible thought that he chokes down.

With a raised brow, Alastor almost seems pleased. "Given your previous choice in partner, I had expected adultery to be on your list. Letting your eyes stray never crossed your mind?"

Vox hated this. Hated redemption, hated therapy, hated being back into this corner. What the fuck was he supposed to say? 'Oh no, Alastor. My heart has always been yours but you crushed it in your fist, so I fell into the first lap that was offered. Yeah, I wanted monogamy, but he told me it was impossible in Hell. Whores get flowers, and I get a cracked screen. And I let it happen for thirty years!' Vox hadn't wanted a relationship with Val, but he'd committed.

He would have given the same thing to Alastor if he hadn't laughed in his fucking face, hadn't broken his screen and left him bleeding in an alley. Hadn't broken his heart.

"No. I'm loyal, maybe to a fault. I never found that kind of love in life. In Hell…." Vox's throat clenches, struggling to swallow the saliva pooling under his tongue. Valentino had been a great love of his, he was sure. Saccharine words and wandering hands, nights pouring over programs and kisses over mugs of coffee hadn't meant nothing, at least not to him. But Val's eyes wandered, his hands, his body. No matter how much of himself he gave over to Valentino, the moth would only be able to give him a small percentage. His attentions were fleeting, split between the next pretty thing and the man he'd saved. Val was his everything, but Vox would only ever be his sometimes. "I've always wanted something permanent."

Vox hates the way Alastor's eyes widen, like he'd been anticipating the worst. Murder and jealousy was fine, but cheating was something unforgivable? Actually, that made sense for this ancient prude with a particular diet. Forgiving a few killings was fine as long as he hadn't put his dick in someone he wasn't whispering sweet nothings to. What a prude.

Alastor's ears flicked back, pinning against his head. Whether it was annoyance that Vox wasn't an adulterer or discomfort with him talking about what he wanted from a relationship, it was hard to say. That golden smile wavered, straining to remain in place. Jesus, he hadn't meant to make him that uncomfortable. His words weren't even salacious. "And what you had with Valentino wasn't… permanent?"

If Vox thought he could sprout legs and run from this conversation, he would have. He knew that Al wasn't a fan of his former partner even before any sort of business dealings were involved. The 70s had been a rough era on their friendship, and a huge part of that had been Val's introduction to Hell. The moth sinner hadn't seemed like much at first, scared and weak as everyone besides Alastor tended to be when they fell into the pit. Just another soul among billions. The cannibal wouldn't have even found Valentino worth eating back then, just another minnow in a pool of sharks.

If Vox hadn't pulled him from an alley, bloodied and bruised, choking on his own tongue, how much of his afterlife would have been different? The number of needles he'd pulled from a wannabe corpse were a good enough sign that he'd continue down a dangerous road. Sinners didn't tend to get better in Hell. They chased the highs and spit on the lows, clawed and gnashed their way through eternal life as endless torture consumed them. A lucky few could ascend to Overlord status, but that game was even more vicious than simply trying to survive.

It's not like he could blame the moth demon for latching on, for clinging to the first potential kindness he'd found in Hell. It wasn't like it was an exact fucking mirror of himself, chasing a red coat and yellowed smile for decades. It wasn't like he'd been seeking out companionship, hoping to find another soul like him. Alastor had been hostile, almost offended, the first time he'd brought Valentino around. That butterfly that never left his chest wanted to believe it was jealousy. Now, he thinks that the Radio Demon enjoys collecting broken things and keeping them cracked and flawed. The tinkerer in some fucked up toy shop, and then he'd gone and fixed Vox a little too well, let him venture too far from home, and Vox had brought home a stray.

Second to their falling out, introducing Valentino that first time had been their largest fight. It was less of a power brawl, more scathing words and bared teeth. Alastor had accused him of seeking out souls to add to his portfolio, ripping him apart for thinking he was strong enough to start accumulating souls. Vox had countered that Al was controlling, wanting to keep him locked in an attic away from the world when they could be striving to enrapture Hell together. It ended with bloody noses and blackened eyes, two bodies curled against each other on Alastor's musty chaise. They'd fallen asleep with tear stains on Vox's cheeks and a snarl curling Al's grin. Apologies had never been their specialty.

"Not, uh — not right this moment, no." Thinking about what he used to have with his former partner was devastating. Simpler times soured by the fact that they lived and worked together for so long. Maybe it was a good thing Alastor hadn't taken him up on his offer all those years ago. As much as Vox wanted to covet all his people and keep them close, it didn't seem to work out well for him. "He wasn't… thrilled, when you became a prisoner. For good reasons, I can see that now." Vox hates how small his voice sounds, lacking the normal bravado he does his best to carry.

Alastor's brows pinch together, pen tapping against his bony thigh. Fluffy ears are pinned back against his skull, a low growl rising from his throat. The hotel really would benefit from some actual therapists. Ethics be damned, at least they were trained to not bite the heads off their patients. Vox supposed his only saving grace was that he was only a head right now. "Fine then. What about the murders?" His tone may be neutral, but the feedback screeching through the air made it evident he wanted to move the conversation along.

Vox wanted to scoff at a serial killer trying to pry information out of another serial killer, but he didn't think it would be appreciated in the moment. He settled on a resigned sigh instead, put out that he had to continue this conversation at all. "What about them? You know what it feels like. The control, the power, the unbridled joy. I slit a few throats to climb a ladder otherwise inaccessible to me. You should know all about that," he states with a glare. "Mass murder feels the same but amplified. Without my own death becoming an inconvenience, I don't think I ever would have stopped."

Alastor's smile twists with something dangerous. Suddenly his tongue feels like a rock in his mouth, threatening to sink down his throat and force him to choke on his own misfortune. "Not so unlike the exorcist angels you so claim to hate, hm? A justified cause, sacrificing many lives for grandeur delusions. You started something of a modern movement, did you not? Evangelical, wide reaching and condemning. It's impressive how you crawled your way out of obscurity only to create a cult following so large it threatened entertainment as we know it! You have always been special, Vincent."

Bile burns at the back of his throat, threatening to dissolve his tongue from his mouth so he doesn't say something ridiculous. He knows the flattery is just a means to get him to talk, to get him to spill his darkest secrets. It had worked so well for the Radio Demon in the past. It's working rather well now, he guesses, too. Having a conflict of interest with your therapist in Hell may be productive, even if they intend to bury their client with their secrets later, forcing them back down their throats with glee. Alastor didn't look gleeful, at least not in this moment. His taunting words may be jovial, but the light never reached his eyes.

"The exorcists aren't murdering sinners to force themselves higher in Heaven's hierarchy. They're doing it on orders and some sick enjoyment that comes from feeling like they're on a holy mission. I always knew what I was doing was morally wrong, and simply didn't care. As long as I didn't get caught and grabbed the next promotion, a little blood under my nails was worth it. The exterminations changed the way Hell operated, they made us worse." Vox would not entertain the idea that he made Hell worse. Not even for a moment. He was a movement, a motion forward, pulling them from the dark ages. There was no remorse.

"We've been around a long time, Al. The Hell we dropped in to is not the same as it was before Heaven started its war. Overlords used to take their time, spend decades plotting and scheming. Turf wars could last weeks, months. Souls were exchanged without a second thought. Nowadays, I can't imagine letting a soul willing fall from my grasp or surrendering turf. It was basically a death sentence before this hotel popped up. It's still not like the billions of souls in Pride are feeling all that great about our chances."

The exterminations had worsened moral, driving more deals and instilling existential fear. Their situation may suck, but at least it sucked forever. Most were not keen on the idea of their soul being wiped from all of existence, snuffed out because Heaven got a little bit pissy. Lucifer did nothing to stop the slaughter, hidden away in a mansion far away from the free will he'd fought so hard to give humanity. Lilith, the greatest voice of the resistance, had vanished without a trace. Charlotte was far too eager, too optimistic to relate to the average sinner. Leadership was lacking, and Vox had filled a void.

"But your takeover fool-heartedly failed, just as predicted, because of your attachments. Even at the promise of ascension, you couldn't resist taking risk you thought would secure you more notoriety and adoration. How does it feel now, knowing all of Hell positively hates you?"

The sparks that flit between Vox's antennae are a shocking blue, charged with something violent and painful. "They hate me because of you! You and the Morningstar brat, always twisting words and making Hell your bitch. Fuck you! I was good for them. They rallied, they cheered. Whatever you all are trying to convince yourselves of, Hell is sick of being at the bottom. If it's not me, then it will be someone else. I could have… I could have done it if it wasn't —" Vox bites his tongue hard enough to draw synthetic blood, feeling it trickle down his throat.

"Hell is in desperate need of new leadership. Who's ready to fill the gap Lucifer left when he abandoned his poor disciples? Perhaps a former queen? Or her naive daughter?" He wasn't blind the whisperings going around the hotel. He may not be at his full power with a body or his control station, but he was still a part of Hell's grid. Charlie had never been subtle, seemed incapable of keeping her mouth shut on a topic for more than a few hours at most. Lilith contacting her was monumental. The timing was, in Vox's opinion, just a bit too convenient to be coincidence.

Alastor's smile was sharpened, razor teeth glowing in the dull evening light. Gauzy curtains did little to keep out the deep red hue of the evening. "You shouldn't concern yourself with rumors, Picture Box. There are certainly enough of your own flying about to keep you entertained. I, for one, am partial to the one about you being consumed by vermin and carried away to become some sort of cybernetic rat king." A bleating burst of Tchaikovsky follows his words.

They really were their worst in each other's presence. Subtly and subterfuge never did them any favors. Both of them were loud, brash, taking on the world with an iron fist. It's why Alastor's more subtle approach after his return had been so grating. Like his actions weren't his own. Vox hadn't intended to be a catalyst for a broken deal, his own or not. He didn't want to know what it felt like to have that many chains wrapped around his neck at once.

Vox snorted with distaste, wriggling free of the tape that only loosely held him still. A sticky goo clung to his screen, and one strand threatened to cover one of his breathing vents, but it wasn't important. There was a thread of information in the air, the first notes of a story, and he'd chase them to the ends of Hell to prove himself right. "She's coming back, isn't she? Lilith is finally returning to Hell? You're on edge, and Charlie seems like she hasn't slept in days. Lucifer hasn't left his suite. Vaggi's eye has been twitching like she wants to stab something. The queen is on her way."

There was no room in his tone for deception. He was certain he had it right, had been for a few days now. Even if he was wrong, Vox had grown accustomed to manipulating words until someone couldn't resist correcting him. Those piercing red eyes would not dissuade him from finding out exactly what he'd gotten himself in to with this hotel. Lilith and all her might, despite a mysterious disappearance nearly eight years ago, deciding to descend once more as all Hell came together with a fucking song was not above Vox's level of corny. If this was a drama on his own channel, it would have been a great plot twist.

A sharp scrape of a record scratch was all the answer he needed. Their frequencies were too entwined, too tangled when they were this close. Lying had been difficult between them, so they'd played a game of half truths and lies by omission for decades. Maybe having a therapist that he couldn't lie to and one that couldn't lie back was beneficial to him. Still, his screen glitched with bars and tones, rainbow flashing with cyan sparks.

"I'm afraid our time is up, Vincent." Alastor's tone was sharp, nearly forcing him back down onto the chaise. "We should continue this next week. Just think of the progress you'll make!"

Vox couldn't have anticipated the wild, feral look behind crimson lids. Ever the fool, he wanted to chase it until the ends of existence, his own self be damned.

Chapter Text

The past week at the Hazbin Hotel has felt more like balancing on a knife's edge, sharp and tense and threatening. There's a lack of cheer in Charlie's steps, a rigidness to Vaggi's shoulders. Husk's tail is all fluffed up like he's on the verge of hissing at the next sinner to piss him off. The king himself seems pensive, quiet in a way Vox hadn't known the ringleader could be. Alastor, despite appearing much the same, has gone on no less than three rampages in as many days, devouring souls without care. Clearly, they know something that they're keeping the rest of the hotel and Hell in the dark about.

Vox has always been a nosy bitch. When he was at the top, spying became more of a past time. Connected to every television and phone in Hell, it wasn't much of a challenge to tap into the network and find out whatever dirty secrets his customers were hiding. But before all the drones and cameras, Vox had been adept at laying low and keeping to the shadows to get his information. Sinners, especially Overlords, didn't give information away for free, and in the beginning he'd needed all the leverage he could get to ascend the ranks.

It helps now that most of the hotel's management seems incapable to keeping their voices down, no matter what they're discussing. They speak like they've never known a life where their words could be twisted and tainted, forced back down their throats until they choked. Power and status tends to make one feel invincible. After he gets what he needs, maybe he'll bring it up to Charlie during their next therapy session. Knowing when to whisper and when to shut the fuck up would benefit her immensely.

"I've told you everything she told me, dad! It's not like we were catching up for hours. She told me she would see me soon, that she was proud of me, and hung up. When I tried to call her back, it went straight to voicemail. I haven't heard anything since," Charlie whines, head in her hands as she leans against a large desk.

Lucifer paces the floor in front of her, oversized sweater hiding his hands as they ring around themselves. His hair is standing at odd angles, like he had been running fingers through it in frustration. "Why now? Why you? Wait, no, sweetie that came out wrong. I meant it in a why not me way, because we're still married. I think."

There's a great sigh as the king leans a hip against the desk, glancing down at his daughter with a hint of a smile. "Proud of you, huh? Just wait until she gets to hear the whole story. She's going to be ecstatic! Pulling all of Hell together through song isn't an easy feat," Lucifer chuckles, leg bouncing restlessly like he wants to go back to pacing.

It was stupidly easy to get Hell to join hands for a song. Vox had done it. The Pride Ring might as well be filled with theatre kids who never got enough attention.

The laugh that escapes Charlie is watery as she lifts her head to meet her father's eyes. Her lip wobbles, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes before spilling rivers down her cheeks. "I want to be happy that she's coming home. I want to plan a party and introduce her to Vaggi and show her around the hotel. It's been eight years, and this should be exciting, a homecoming. So why does my heart feel so heavy?"

Vox starts to regret his voyeuristic tendencies as Lucifer places a hand on top of Charlie's head, smoothing down some of the flyaway strands that have escaped her ponytail. "Leaving without a trace for nearly a decade will do that to a relationship, I think. There's going to be a lot to process here, a lot of emotions and sticky situations. I can't promise it will be smooth sailing for either of us, but I can promise that I will be here for you, no matter what. Lilith may be my wife, but you're my child, my whole universe. More than anything, right?"

Vox forces himself away from the office door at the first sounds of sobbing, slinking down the hallway on a few manifested wires. He's gained a bit of strength back since Alastor stole him away in the middle of the night, but it's nothing compared to what it once was. Conjuring the cords from his neck takes more than a simple thought, sparks of electricity from his antennae or tongue almost always crash his screen. There's too much energy channeled into only his head, and he's grown accustomed to the twinge of pain that plagues his motherboard. He needs a body, a conduit, something to ease the burden.

He tucks the wires away as he reaches the lobby, bustling with sinners new and old. Attention seems to be on a fresh hole in the wall, likely Cherri's work, so he slips into the room unnoticed. Weaving between feet and tails has become a part of his daily existence, and he's growing sick of the constant kicking and disgusting angles he gets of his fellow sinners. It's a miracle Nifty has gone so many decades without being squashed like the bugs she loves chasing. He's had enough of meeting the sharp end of her needle in one of her crazed states.

Vox's settles into a wingback chair placed just on the edge of the shadows, sinking into the plush pillows that relieve some of the pressure from his casing. The spiderweb fractures along the edges are going to become a problem if he doesn't stop hopping around the hotel, but he feels exhausted from the few minutes of magic use he did manage. It wouldn't do him any good to be scuttling along just to lose focus and fall face first into the floor. He's had enough embarrassment for two lifetimes.

Why would the queen of Hell be coming out of hiding? Eight years is a long time to go no contact with her daughter and husband. She'd abandoned her movement, her people, her dreams for nearly a decade and vanished without a trace. Vox knows the royal family felt her loss immensely, but there was a hole in the heart of Hell as well. Sinners had looked to her for hope, for direction, a voice in the darkness they were subjected to endlessly. Lilith had been a powerhouse, an ideal, a movement into what the future of the afterlife could be. Her disappearance had killed the spark she'd ignited in their hearts.

Vox had done the most during his takeover to bring back that blazing force. Waking up the long dead desire in sinner's hearts to take back control over their own destinies, he'd been so sure that they would succeed this time. The people of Pride needed leadership, a mouthpiece that could unscramble their jumbled thoughts and feelings into something productive. Billions of eyes all directed at him, the frontman of their parade, the grid for their power. It had been delicious, heady, like a fine wine aged to perfection and paired with his favorite meal. It had been his prime, his vigor, the most formidable he'd ever been.

All of it ruined because of Alastor. Not him, never him, not the selfish reasons he'd been striving for Heaven in the first place.

Once he can get himself hooked up to his code, he's deleting this pesky intrusive thought process.

Lilith had failed because she was too ruthless, too spiteful to appeal to all. Vox had failed because he wanted the crown all for himself, using the sinners as a ladder for his own gain. Lucifer failed because he was melancholic, adverse to believing these tortured souls were anything other than a stain on existence. But Charlie…

The princess was different. Her success came from some genuine, misguided idea that there was a bit of good in everyone. Bleeding heart, arms wide open, accepting what the rest of humanity had deemed tainted and not worth saving. She didn't join Hell together with the promise of dominating Heaven, of blood and revenge. Charlie wanted them to be better. No violence, no pettiness, no need for control or a title. Her only goal was unity, to end the suffering of her people and see them changed for the better.

Pathetic, really, but damn effective. To her, redemption wasn't meant to destroy the existence of Hell, but to act as some sort of halfway house between the mortal world and Heaven. The hotel may have been a physical embodiment of the idea, but if the princess was successful, the idea wouldn't be limited to these walls. It was the kind of movement that could sweep through the Pride Ring, group therapy and trust exercises being held like yoga classes or alcoholic anonymous meetings. She would be the voice of a movement without having to be in the spotlight.

Charlie Morningstar would have all the sinners in Hell worshiping her name, without taking any of the benefits that come with the title.

What a fucking waste. Vox's screen had dimmed as he tucked himself into his nest of pillows and one particularly soft blue blanket, but the pout on his false lips was visible. He wished he had hands so he could feel the plush shark pattern beneath his fingertips, an outlet for his mess of thoughts. How did a creature filled with so much innate light end up in an abyss of degenerates and debauchery? The universe was cruel, that's for sure.

Well, if he can't beat them, might as well join them. If the princess was going to be leading the charge, then maybe he can find a way to be on the council. Lilith must have a plan if she's chosen this moment to make her return. Strategically, the queen would have better luck uniting Hell under her hand with her daughter's endorsement. Razing Heaven to the ground would take no time at all with Charlie's direct connection to a seraphim who checked in on the hotel multiple times a week. Suspicions would be high at the start, but the princess wanted so desperately to rebuild her relationship with her mother, and the king would be in their corner. Vox had always been a great Devil's advocate.

Now, how does one become best friends with the Princess of Hell?

Of the multitude of therapies offered by the Hazbin Hotel, music therapy seemed the most popular by far. Many sinners still weren't comfortable enough to spill their secrets to strangers, or trusting enough to find the games fun more than competitive. Many of the hallways were lined with art, both terrible and beautiful, from the various art classes held in the halls, but the sound of music could be heard at nearly all times of day.

Most of the shared spaces had a piano, which would either be played by one of the residents or automatically by the program inside it. Vox had been proud of that one, nearly flawless in its delivery of the notes and chords. Alastor had slapped him upside his boxy head, jolting his smug smile from his face. It hadn't been their first argument, and it wouldn't be their last, but it had been the first time Vox had been thrilled with a creation only to have Alastor slam him back to the ground with disappointment. Music wasn't made for machines, he'd said, glaring at Vincent with a sneer. He hates that he remembers how quickly his smile faltered, how his gaze met the floor.

The piano in his penthouse would have been coated in dust if he didn't have people to keep it clean. The keys hadn't been caressed in decades, still shiny from the lack of fingers manipulating them. Besides being able to carry a tune, enjoying the wonders his voice could achieve, Vox lacked an affinity for instruments. Too clumsy, too rushed, not enough dexterity or actual lung capacity. But the piano was kind, made to be played by long fingers and tapping feet. He'd forgotten that his joy of playing had been stolen from him in their disastrous falling out, another remnant to be pulled from the ashes.

The logistics of playing without hands had taken him some time to figure out. It would have been disingenuous to start an apology by letting some coding take over while he sang his heart out. No, he was going to make this the apology to end all apologies. Play a catchy tune, create the opportunity for a duet he knew the princess would be able to resist, and then wiggle his way into her heart until she trusted him enough to include him in their inner circle. It was fool proof! Well, other than his lack of hands.

Sitting at the piano stool, Vox's brow creased as he manifested a series of small cords. The pain that burst through his circuits was immediate, but he wouldn't be deterred. He'd put a lot of effort into this idea, and a little smoke spilling from his vents wasn't as bad as being at the bottom. Large ballroom doors swung open, creaking slightly on their hinges, and that was Vox's queue. The princess had arrived and this was his chance.

Memorizing the keys had been simple. It was buried inside him, never quite gone but just out of reach. The wires didn't operate as smoothly as his own fingers would have, but they were able to press with enough force to make the notes float into the air. His eyes fall closed, not needing a sheet of paper to guide him through the motions he'd loved for so long. There's the soft padding of shoes on carpet as the princess draws nearer, perching on the seat next to his head.

Despite the constant heat that coats all of Hell, Vox has never been one to shy away from another's body heat. The constant, warm reminder that someone exists next to him, wants to be near him, is enough to chase the chill that surrounds him constantly. Glass and metal, plastic and copper, always just above freezing despite his home. Being engulfed in an embrace, hot blood and limbs and soft touches? He doubts there's anything in Heaven that could compare to the comfort of existing near someone else.

Vox spent so much of his life untouchable. People flocked to him, yes, but in the way one flocks to a church. They were there to worship him, to call him a pariah, to lift him to great heights. They offered praise, loud and volatile and blasphemous. He was a commodity that they were all too willing to devour, but never get close to.

The Vees tried to bridge the gap, but they'd all had their own hangups. Velvette wasn't big on physical affection, choosing to show her love through actions and snide remarks over getting close to him. Val certainly was physical, but it never lasted more than the fleeting moments where they were tangled up in bed. Outside of sex, touching each other became stilted and awkward, like neither were sure they could stomach it. His assistants only ever grazed his shoulder or tapped him with a single finger, more to get his attention than provide comfort.

Alastor was the last person he touched so freely. Arms slung around shoulders, a hand on his waist, knees bumping as they danced the night away. Tangled fingers and brushing shoulders, his forehead against one slim chest, laughing at some joke he couldn't recall. Falling asleep with limbs tangled, a caress against the back of his casing, a kiss against the edge of his glass. Fingers dancing over top of his as they played, Alastor guiding his hands through the notes, passionate and practiced. They'd smiled, giggles carrying through each press of a key, leaning heavily against each other as ice melted in their whiskey. The good old days, easier, brighter. The lightest he'd ever felt.

Carefully, Vox begins his song. His voice is soft, timber deep and rattling in his servers. This isn't some lighthearted affair, nothing to coat with sugar. The medicine tastes bitter and thick, difficult to swallow, syrup sticking to his tongue. It's heavy, filled with something akin to remorse, shredding platitudes and bringing forth the worst parts of his soul. The parts that still cling to his humanity, that barely recognize who he has become, the parts that Hell never truly managed to break.

Saliva builds under his tongue, a burn in his eyes threatening to bring tears high on his cheeks. Not this time, damn it. Vox would make it through this without breaking. He'd been weak enough these past few weeks, reduced to nothing in the eyes of everyone. This was a promise, an offer, something that needed to be delivered in a way that made him favorable. He'd failed two sets of friendships. Adding a third would make fools of them all.

As his voice linger in the room, bouncing off the ridiculously high ceilings and clinging to the curtains that dampen the acoustics, a hand meets the keys. It doesn't get in the way of his wires, nor does it chase the same notes. Something new, hopeful, gentle joins in along side him, finding a home amongst the gaps in his own piece. A harmony, more bold and brash but no less beautiful. Each stroke was confident, assured, teasing against the edges of the notes Vox was crafting.

Playful, meeting him score for score without stepping on his toes. It's hard to keep the mirth from his voice as he lets holds a note for as long as his breath allows. He'd expected a jubilant response when the princess entered, but this was fun in its own way. If this was what kicked off their friendship, then he supposed there were worse places to start. As he inhales to carry on, he finally allows his eyes to open, only to lose every molecule of air he'd breathed in a second.

It wasn't Charlie sat beside him, toying with him, keeping him on his toes. Instead, a vision in red, ears draped to the sides of his head in relaxation. Every strike of the keys flowed through him, moving like a man possessed. The Radio Demon was in his element, consumed by the music he often blessed the airwaves with. He was meeting Vox where he was, matching him, challenging him despite it all. An ear twitched as he faltered a stroke, caught off guard by the sudden presence, but he righted himself swiftly.

His apology song had a far deeper meaning if it was Alastor he was singing it to. Suddenly promises of the future and offers of a connection unlike anything she'd ever seen held more weight. His ex-friend knew exactly what Vox could offer, what days and nights spent in his company could be. Late nights pouring over paperwork, hashing out the best plan of attack. A volley of words, a constant back and forth, finding loopholes and weaknesses in a contract. The feeling of electricity dancing along skin, a reminder that he was never truly gone, even if he wasn't in the room. Slow dancing in front of a cathedral radio, foreheads resting against one another.

That last part was reserved for Alastor alone.

His voice falls into apathy. There's a longing he cannot repress, cloyingly sweet in the back of his throat. Words tumble from his lips faster than he'd meant, cords picking up double time to keep pace with his ramblings. The music becomes frantic, chasing the notes his accompaniment had chosen with a brute force. The melody is lost, changed by the harmony that now consumes the room, overtaking the hysterical music. A chaotic cat and mouse chase begins, and if he still possessed his heart, he's sure it would be hammering in his audio processors. Static begins to fill his screen, whiting out the edges of his vision.

Before he can lose himself to the pandemonium, a familiar frequency wraps itself around his. The radio waves engulf him, pull him close, lure back the erratic nature his signal had taken on. Holes and wounds are soothed by a patient stream of static, patching up parts of himself he hadn't known were broken. It's only once his frequency has calmed into something less forlorn that the Radio Demon cracks open an eye. "Continue your performance, Vox. This is your moment. Don't let anyone take that from you."

Even with his mouth filled with sand, dry as a desert day, it would be stupid of him to deny the request. He finished out his song the way he'd intended it, laced with conviction and a boldness that was unique to him. A few words were changed last minute, even if he did consider calling Alastor 'princess' for just a moment. The final note is drawn out for a bit longer than he'd intended, but it's hard to end his song now that Alastor is finally meeting his gaze, locking eyes just as fast as he locked his fingers around Vox's wires. The piano carries the last note into the night air, sticky with humidity and regret.

"You're not the audience I was hoping for," Vox whispers, barely able to coax his processors into verbalizing his thoughts.

"No, I doubt I was. But I am the audience you got. Disappointed?" Alastor's grin is less maniacal, closed lipped and small. If Vox's head wasn't two second away from splitting in half from the terrible migraine he's given himself, he would have taken a moment to appreciate it.

"Never. Just… I wasn't prepared to change up the last verse on a dime like that. You've always enjoyed keeping me on my toes." He so hopes it comes off light, nonchalant. Not like he'd rather be swallowing acid than having this conversation. "Was there a reason for your interruption into what I had hoped to be a fruitful evening?"

Alastor hums, long and low for a beat. His fingers are still tangled with one of Vox's cords, playing with the smooth plastic that runs the length of it. Twirling his fingers, it pulls against the back of Vox's neck, forcing him to gasp. "I have a surprise for you, old pal. A little something that is sure to bring you joy in your endless quest to better yourself. All in the name of redemption, I hope!"

The softness of his grin is gone, once more wide and filled with horrors. The moment gone just as quickly as it had arrived.

"A surprise from you could mean a glass of rye or an invitation to your broadcasts. What is it? And what will it cost me?" Alastor doesn't do favors. There's always a catch, a deal, something for him to cash in on. Doing something out of the goodness of his heart was never his style, and Vox knew better than to accept a gift from him without at least a few questions.

Alastor's chuckle is dark, casting great shadows to swallow the room. There's nothing but darkness surrounding them as they sit on a piano bench, touches still light against the baby grand. Green stitching threads through his lips as his smile begins to split his face, dials flashing in the deer's eyes. "Don't look the gift horse in the mouth, dear! You want to be back at your full potential, and I want you back to your entertaining, annoying Picture Box self. A quid pro quo! Nothing untoward about it."

Vox's eyes narrow, pulling his wires back into his body. Some were still warm from where Alastor's grip had remained. "No such thing with you. I'm not an idiot, Al. I've seen you make deals for nearly a century. What are you offering, and what am I agreeing to in exchange?"

Alastor's brows knit together, petulance gracing his smile. It's as close to a pout as the man can get. "I'm offering you a body, Vox! Baxter has spent so very long making the perfect replacement for you at my behest. A feat in bioengineering, he tells me. It's truly a marvel that he could make something out of that scrap heap I pulled from the battlefield, but you'll be right as rain in no time! He's even made some modifications that I'm sure you'll find agreeable. I have overseen the entire project from start to now, and I hope to see it through to the finish line!"

A body. Alastor had made Vox a body. Alastor had stolen his broken form and given it to a mad scientist to make him whole anew, with some changes, and he dropped this bomb after Vox basically poured his heart out to him through song. He should be elated, singing a whole different type of tune, praising his former friend. And yet.

"Sounds great, Al. What do you want in return?" The delivery is flat, leaving no room for interpretation. He won't be a victim of this game, not again. Not without fulling knowing the rules and exactly how this bastard will cheat him. All of this was too good to be true, and Alastor was anything but good.

There's a twitch in the Radio Demon's eye, but that's all that gives away his annoyance. "Nothing much, darling. I'm sure you wouldn't notice the change at all! I simply… miss your old visage. This sleek screen is much too long and far too thin to be any good. Baxter has made up a new head for you, similar to your old model but with less bulk. I do remember that you complained frequently of the strain on your neck. This version should be more agreeable!"

A record scratch was usually more Alastor's thing, but Vox wasn't above using sound effects to get his point across. The air grew still, silent as breaths were held and static trembled. Alastor wanted Vox to go back to his old style? Take on that giant dinosaur of a head once more just because the radio prick was a bit sentimental? What the fuck was happening?

"What the fuck is happening?" His neck hurts where it rests against the stool, tucked tightly against the bottom of his case. The fractures in his glass have spread a bit more, teasing at the corners of his mouth that has turned down into a frown. "Why? Of all the things you could ask, why that? Are you that desperate to relive the glory days? News flash, asshole, I won't be the same, no matter what face you want me to wear. I'm too far gone for that."

Alastor's ears tilt back in annoyance, but his smile remains sharp. His tongue traces his teeth, lost in thought for a brief second before he pushes forward. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, if you want this new body that I have spent weeks working on and designing for you, you'll need to agree to a new head. It's nothing you haven't done a dozen times before. This model is just a bit more retro. If Velvette is to be believed, that does seem to be coming back into style as of late."

Vox's eyes narrow as he scans the Radio Demon's face. Lies. Betrayal. Amusement. Anything to let Vox in on this sick joke he's hoping to play. But the smile never falters, brows never twitch. He seems relaxed, at ease as though the music stole any tension he'd been holding. The only anger he held was that of Vox not agreeing the second he'd offered. If he had a nose or hands, he would have pinched it in disbelief.

"And that's all? No hidden agenda? If I agree to take on an older model head, I get a redesigned body, no questions asked? If this is your ploy to have some secret remote to make an ass out of me, I'll have you know I'm more than capable of doing that myself." The joke falls flat, mostly due to his own nervous anticipation. He wants this to be real. Vox misses being able to eat on his own, misses legs that can carry him from room to room, lungs and a heart and a stomach so he doesn't have to feel everything in his head. But he won't take it if this is just a ploy for Alastor to take control.

"Nope! Nothing at all, friend. You don your previous look, I get to appreciate said look, and we can both experience whatever nonsense Baxter has cooked up in that lab of his! I'm sure it will be electrifying." Alastor is aiming for a joke, but Vox isn't sure if the man is aware that Baxter is an anglerfish and not an eel. Fish and oceanic mammals were more of Vox's thing, and Alastor clearly hadn't listened enough to remember the differences between some of his favorite animals.

"Fine! Fine. Yes, I want the body. But if this head starts to give me chronic pain, I will demand a replacement. Is that a deal?" It's not like Vox had a hand he could extend, so Alastor would have to take his word for it.

Green symbols danced around Alastor's head as his antlers extended. Despite the heightened roof in this room, the scrape of the Radio Demon's antlers against the surface was unmistakable. The ends of his smile curled viciously, nearly turning the corners into a facsimile of a frown. A monstrous hand grabs the edge of his casing, pulling him closer to the demon's face. "It's a deal, Vincent."

Unthinkably, Alastor seals the deal with a kiss.