Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They met in college, of all places. Vincent was a journalism major with dreams of someday running his own television network. He had had a rough childhood: he was bullied through school for having one green eye and one blue eye, and glasses. He was always "too skinny," or "too weird," or "too much," even to his own family. His friend, Alastor, was one of the few folks who actually tolerated, maybe even liked, Vincent, who many folks deemed a mere loser. Maybe Vincent was a loser, or maybe everyone around him just didn't have the right vision: they couldn't see Vincent for the star he truly was.

Alastor intrigued Vincent: he was an old soul who preferred reading and listening to the radio over watching television or partying all night like most of the college student population, including Vincent. With a style that Vincent could only describe as "eccentric," Vincent and Alastor seemed like they'd mix about as well as oil and water. But somehow, the two spent enough time together that Vincent felt comfortable enough to mentally upgrade him from a "classmate" to a "friend." Alastor wasn't always the kindest to Vincent; he always seemed standoffish and cold, and liked to make snide comments about Vincent's career choices. But Vincent assumed that was just how Alastor was: a jerk who had just enough charm to pull off being a bully one second, and a friend the next. Alastor seemed to draw people to him, which seemed to annoy him because he always seemed to try to push them away. Vincent was the only person that Alastor couldn't (or maybe wouldn't) blatantly tell to, "please, fuck off." 

The last time Vincent saw his friend was during their shared undergraduate English composition course. Vincent didn't mind the general education courses; they kept his mind busy. Vincent was the type of person who had to keep himself occupied, or else he would spiral into self-destruction. Alastor, on the other hand, complained about the classes, especially the gen eds, daily. Vincent shouldn't have been surprised that Alastor dropped out: he had always confided in Vincent that he didn't need college to become a famous musician. But after only a few days, Vincent realized that he truly missed Alastor: he felt a hollowness in his soul that he had never felt before. Vincent continued to work hard, despite being depressed about who he thought was his one true friend, and graduated two years later at the top of his class.

That was seven years ago. For reasons that Vincent couldn't–and possibly didn't want to–place, Alastor continued to stick in his mind. Vincent still felt that void deep in his chest left behind by someone who he thought was his friend. Years of no contact should have pulled Vincent together; it should have made him realize how little he actually mattered to Alastor. But, for some reason, it didn't. Part of Vincent remained hopeful; maybe Alastor was just busy. Maybe he just lost his number. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Vincent blinked, snapping himself out of his daydream about a time that, no matter how beautiful, no longer existed. It probably never would've in the first place; Alastor and Vincent were both homebodies, and Vincent knew for certain that Alastor had returned to his home in New Orleans. At least for a while. Did Alastor ever make it big?

Vincent returned home to Roanoke, Virginia. He got an internship during his senior year, which led to a full-time position as a weather broadcaster for a local television network in Roanoke. His family scoffed and rolled their eyes at Vincent whenever he talked about work, as if he didn't have a "real job." Vincent didn't hate his job (he truly enjoyed it; he felt that the weather was the most important part of the news broadcast), but he hated being reduced to “weather boy” by others. He didn't want to be looked down upon; he didn't go to college to be reduced to “Weather Boy.” As he watched the broadcasters in other departments get treated with praise and admiration, Vincent grew colder as he was continually passed over for promotions for which he knew he qualified. Maybe he just didn't have the “right look”: with mousy brown hair that was already starting to gray and two differently colored eyes that sat behind thick, dark-rimmed glasses, Vincent was painfully average-looking. Vincent also wasn't the most social; he had some strange interests (marine wildlife, mostly; especially sharks) and tended to overshare when given even the slightest chance. He was also incredibly particular in his mannerisms: Vincent needed the stage set the same way every time so he knew where everything was. He needed the same people on staff for every broadcast. He craved familiarity and routine. It was off-putting to his supervisors, but they kept him around because the "weather boy" position wasn't easy to fill. Vincent was just too weird to be the face of the television network. 

A face made for radio! As Alastor used to joke about both himself and Vincent. Vincent never believed him. With dark skin and deep brown eyes framed by soft curls, Alastor was every woman's dream boy (he should know: girls approached Alastor to flirt with him all the time, but never gave Vincent a second glance, or even a hello). Vincent didn't understand why Alastor never had a girlfriend; he could have his pick at any given moment. 

"I'm focusing on me." Alastor would say, but a slight sparkle in his eye made Vincent wonder if he was telling the truth.

Then, Vincent finally snapped. He didn't remember the exact moment, but one thing led to another, and suddenly, Vincent was pushed off the edge into insanity. Of course, because he usually kept to himself when he wasn't on the stage and tended to be avoided whenever possible, nobody around him suspected a thing. But something inside of Vincent drove him to take not just the mannerisms of his coworkers, but also their lives. Vincent wanted to ensure that nobody would ever outshine him again. He used unconventional weapons: first, the pointer that he used to point at weather maps. Next was strangulation with electrical wires. Another success was pushing one of his fellow broadcasters off the top of the station's twenty-story building. Vincent killed a total of five people before police radios started buzzing. After a couple of close calls with the local police department, Vincent booked it out of his hometown for the first time in his life. He could've–and probably should've–fled to the other side of the country, but something drew him to Louisiana. Vincent remembered that Alastor was from New Orleans, but assuming Alastor did fulfil his dreams of becoming a famous musician, what musician stays in their hometown? Still, the thought of running into Alastor stuck in the back of Vincent's mind.

Did Vincent follow Alastor? Not intentionally. He just packed his few belongings into his car and started driving. Somehow, he ended up finding his way farther South. Vincent took an entry-level bookkeeping job for a local news station when he arrived in New Orleans. Still somewhat adjacent to his studies in journalism and broadcasting, but out of the spotlight. Which was a shame: Vincent loved being a star. But, he couldn't afford more publicity, not with the Roanoke Police on his trail. He'd work his way up someday, even if he had to fake being social. Another year passed, and it seemed to Vincent that the pigs had since given up attempting to catch the “TV serial killer.” It became a cold case. Maybe Vincent actually did manage to evade them, after all. He had been extremely careful with covering his tracks; sometimes, the body was never found. But Vincent didn't want to test his luck by returning home, no matter how much he missed it.

Vincent wasn't even sure what he missed about Roanoke. Not his family. Definitely not the traffic. Maybe it was only purely sentimental. 

As he wrapped up his work for the day, Vincent looked out the window. It was storming outside, much to his discontent; he had forgotten his umbrella. If only New Orleans had a competent weatherman on TV this morning. He growled to himself as he packed his belongings into his briefcase and grabbed his hat and jacket. Vincent lived close enough to walk to and from work; his house was only about a block from the office. He considered asking a coworker for a ride, but he still felt like a newcomer even after a year in the office, especially with the high turnover. Vincent was still not the social type, so he didn't know (or particularly like) any of his coworkers well enough to ask to bum a ride. Vincent was also appalled by the mere thought of asking someone else for help.

Vincent stepped outside and started the familiar walk home, which seemed so much longer than usual. He muttered complaints to himself the entire time as rain soaked him down to his underwear. Shivering, Vincent wrapped his arms around himself in a futile attempt to warm himself up. He envisioned the nice cup of hot tea he would make as soon as he got home and changed into something dry. He couldn't wait to cuddle up on the couch with a blanket and turn on a good movie. Maybe he'd make some popcorn for dinner. As a single man living alone, Vincent ate a lot of "easy" meals. Vincent looked up through his raindrop-covered glasses, only to see a red car, out of control and hydroplaning in his direction. Vincent tried to jump out of the way, but a small, skinny man like him stood no chance against a huge, moving hunk of metal, even on a day that he wasn't soaked to the bone. 

Vincent heard a thud and felt some pressure in his stomach and legs. He thought he heard a scream, but he couldn't tell if it was his voice; it sounded too distant to be his voice.

Then, everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Vincent struggled to focus on the muffled voice that called his name and the mental image that struggled to come into his field of vision. He was flickering in and out of consciousness. He wanted to give in to the darkness at the edges of his vision and fall into a peaceful sleep. But that voice, that oh-so recognizable voice, jolted Vincent awake, forcing a rapid heartbeat into his throat.

“Damn it, Vincent! Don't you dare die on me!” The voice yelled in desperation.

Vincent’s eyes finally focused on the slender, dark-skinned man who was violently grabbing his shoulders. Dark, curly hair framed his angular face perfectly. Deep brown eyes with flecks of gold burned into Vincent's mismatched eyes. Even after nearly a decade, Vincent could never forget those eyes. He could never forget that voice.

I'm dead. Vincent thought. He must've been dead. If he weren’t dead, Alastor wouldn't be there, right? Why was Alastor here? All Vincent remembered was a car coming at him. He only vaguely remembered the impact, the numbness in his legs. Did Alastor hit him with his car?

“Al...” Then, the pain hit him. Vincent had taken a brutal hit to his entire lower body: both of his legs were broken, at the very least. Vincent was probably bleeding internally; his stomach hurt like hell. Instead of talking, Vincent screamed in agony. His vision went dark again.

Alastor sighed as he dragged Vincent's useless, limp body away. He truly didn't mean to hit Vincent. Alastor was no stranger to a lead foot, and in the rain, the visibility of the corner at which Vincent stood was almost non-existent. Plus, Alastor was shocked to see Vincent, a self-proclaimed homebody, anywhere besides Virginia, let alone in Alastor’s hometown. That alone was enough of a distraction to make Alastor run off the road.

Alastor considered just killing Vincent. He'd get away with it, too; it wouldn’t be Alastor’s first disposal. He could drag Vincent’s already limp body out into the middle of the woods and let him rot; it would be so easy.

Or, Alastor could save his life. Even if he didn't know a lick of basic first aid, Alastor had ways. He considered taking Vincent to the hospital, of course, but dismissed the idea of getting into trouble with law enforcement for hitting a pedestrian. Alastor had managed to keep the cops off his trail and intended to keep it that way.

Alastor sighed again as he looked at the ghost from his past. Vincent had aged harder than Alastor. Alastor wondered what his friend had been through in the past near-decade, what kind of stress the poor man must have been under to already have gray hair and permanent bags under his eyes. Alastor smiled softly. He missed Vincent’s eyes; Alastor had always found them so unique. He had always found them so pretty.

Alastor would never admit it, but he regretted not keeping in contact with Vincent. But, he couldn't. After dropping out of school and returning home to New Orleans, Alastor went through hell. First, figuratively: after watching his father kill his mother in an alcoholic rage, and then literally: he made a deal with a demon powerful enough to grant him everything that he needed in this life and in his eventual afterlife. Alastor had attempted to call upon demons since his youth, even through college, something that he never told Vincent. He never told anybody; too much talk can come back and bite a man in the ass. Up until about a year ago, he had been unsuccessful in making any contact. But one night, something changed: Alastor finally made a deal with the demon Rosie, who granted him the promise of power when his time on Earth was finished.

Would Rosie help him again? Could Alastor ask for another favor, this time for a…friend?

Alastor loaded Vincent into his car, then parked at the edge of a huge stretch of woods. He then dragged Vincent to the same cabin that he dragged all of his murder victims–six so far-nestled deep in the woods, about five miles away from his childhood home. If Alastor wanted to kill Vincent, nobody would look for him here. Alastor would consume most of his remains so that his identification would be impossible. Human flesh was Alastor's guilty pleasure; another secret that he wouldn't dare to reveal to anyone. 

To the locals, Vincent would just become another victim of the “New Orleans Radio Demon,” the town legend of a smiling, deer-like cryptid who carried a microphone and spoke with a mellow, radio-host voice. Alastor chuckled to himself. Did Vincent know of the legend? Did Vincent know the truth? That the Radio Demon is real, and does not fuck around? Alastor thought as he realized, to his chagrin, that night had begun to fall. Time flies when you’re dragging your friend’s unconscious body through the woods.

Knowing that they only had mere minutes of daylight left, Alastor threw Vincent down and ran to close the cabin door to keep away any prying eyes, as if those would be any issue in the middle of nowhere. The last few rays of sunlight disappeared into the night. Alastor contained his screams as his teeth grew, and his face contorted into a permanent smile. He was mostly used to this pain. Antlers pierced through Alastor’s scalp, causing blood to run down his face. He could feel his joints stretching as he grew taller, his arms and legs becoming inhumanly long. Alastor's nails elongated into sharp, red claws. His skin changed from a warm brown to a cold, deathly gray, and his beautiful curls flattened and turned a shade of red that Alastor found incredibly tacky. Alastor's teeth became longer, more pointed, and the color of old, yellowed foam; the kind found in every radio speaker. The transformation process was excruciatingly painful, and Alastor had to endure it every night.

Alastor thought back to the night that he finally made contact with a powerful demon. He had already made his demands, had his mind set, when the demon Rosie dared to question his preparedness. 

“Humans shouldn’t mess with worlds aside from their own. There will be consequences, dear.” Rosie warned.

Alastor laughed. “Whatever lies in store, I am prepared to endure.”

“You will be cursed. Stuck somewhere between the human realm and Hell until you actually die your mortal death.”

“I’m willing to accept the consequences.” Alastor smiled.

“Very well. Then our deal is settled.” Alastor shook a hand that extended from an old radio, not connected to any body or face. Nothing except the radio: the only successful way that Alastor had discovered would reach the demon realm.

Alastor screamed in agony as Rosie’s hands disappeared back into the radio, and he learned exactly what she meant by “consequences.”

The Radio Demon stood above a still unconscious Vincent Whittman, who seemed to be growing more limp by the minute. His deer-like ears flattened to his head, an anxious response, as he realized that his friend was quickly running out of time.

Using the blood from his last kill, the Radio Demon drew a fresh pentagram on the floor and surrounded it with various cuts of both human and non-human flesh. He then chanted in Latin to call upon the spirits that he had contacted before; this time, with more desperation than ever, though he hid the desperation in his voice extremely well.

A soft voice and an eerie red glow blanketed the small living room of the cabin. “Alastor! Long time, no chat. Enjoying yourself? You look fantastic!” Rosie said, a smile in her voice.

“Save it. I need assistance. Or, rather, my friend needs assistance. I need you to save his life.” the Radio Demon demanded.

Rosie giggled like a schoolgirl instead of the vile creature she was. “I've already granted you one wish, and now you're back for more? You humans are so greedy, Alastor.” Rosie chastised. “Why should I help you again?”

“Because I'm offering you his soul, too.” the Radio Demon replied. He, of course, didn't mention that itty-bitty fact to Vincent, who groaned. Alastor hoped he'd stay passed out for just a bit longer, just until the deal was complete.

“Hmm…very well. I see that this soul is powerful, just like yours, Alastor." 

Powerful?

"I can see why he'd be your friend; you two share many similarities. I'll grant your wish. But you know the price. Have you explained the rules to…Vincent, is it?” Rosie said with a voice that was clear that she just knew that Alastor wasn't completely open with Vincent. Then again, how could he? Just say something like, “Sure, I'll save your life! You'll just have to turn into a part-time demon with me first! Our souls will be owned by some demon lady that we'll have to do favors for for eternity after we die, but that's all just formalities!” The Radio Demon laughed to himself at the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation in his mind.

“He will have no problem with his new life. I’ll be there to guide him." Said the Radio Demon, with a cold smile. 

“Very well, then.” Said Rosie.

Vincent’s eyes shot open, and he sat up, gasping for air. The Radio Demon jumped, not expecting such a sudden turnaround, and fled, turning himself into nothing more than a shadow. He did not want to be caught by and have to explain himself to Vincent. 

“Wha- where am I?” Vincent said as he looked around frantically. He thought he saw a flash of something--someone--red for just a fraction of a second, but Vincent must've been mistaken. 

“Hello, Vincent. It's very nice to meet you. I wish you the best. Can't wait to see you soon!” Rosie giggled as her voice faded out, and Vincent’s face became even paler as the red glow retreated into the radio on the mantle.

What's going on? Did I actually die? Visions of Alastor danced in Vincent's mind as he tried his best to recollect his memory from earlier. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, but he did know that he had been hit by a car. He still wasn't certain whether or not Alastor had hit him with his car. 

Silence. Then, extreme pain took hold of Vincent's entire body. He screamed.

The Radio Demon's ears flicked as he listened to Vincent's screams from just outside the cabin door. His mouth still smiled, but his eyes held back tears. 

Chapter Text

Vincent screamed as he felt something pierce through his scalp, and felt the blood ran down his face, which suddenly felt like it was being stretched; so much so, that it became entirely numb. 

I knew it: I'm being killed. Is this really what it feels like to be stabbed to death? 

Vincent looked around the room, quickly realizing that he was alone. Whoever had stabbed him was gone. 

Surely, Alastor wouldn't do this. Vincent thought.

His knees and elbows cracked as they protested, growing longer and bending at impossible angles. In the dark, Vincent couldn't see anything, but he felt like he was being electrocuted as his bones were broken. 

Where did you go, Alastor? Why did you leave me to die like this? Vincent thought as he bit his tongue with teeth that now felt way too sharp. He winced in pain and confusion. 

Suddenly, Vincent couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth, gasping for air, but he couldn't pull it in. He felt the flesh of his ribcage split open on both sides, and only then was his gasping successful. Vincent screamed between gasps. He couldn't feel the usual passage of air through his nose; instead, he felt like the air was passing directly through his chest. Is this a panic attack? He thought. Vincent had never had a real panic attack before; he never had anything to be panicked about. At least, that's what his parents always told him when he would start feeling anxious.

You're just an anxious idiot, Vincent. His father's voice rang through his mind. Tears threatened to fall from Vincent's eyes, but he fought hard to hold them back. He would not cry. Vincent’s face held the memory of the many hits he took as a child; his father would slap him if he shed tears. After just a few strong hits, Vincent learned to “stop all that emotional, crying shit.” 

Vincent’s vision was still spinning from the pain, but he could see something red. Someone red? Vincent turned his head, which suddenly felt extremely heavy, and his neck cracked and sent off another shot of electrical-like pain. Then, he began hyperventilating. Vincent felt another strong electrical jolt shake his body. He had heard the stories of the Radio Demon, but he had never truly believed them. But there he stood, seeming to mock Vincent with a smile that was too wide to be comfortable, or human.

Had he been there this whole time? What a pathetic way to go out: being killed by a cryptid while having a panic attack. Vincent could feel his parents laughing at him, though they had died years ago. Their ghosts, their harsh, critical words, never left Vincent's mind.

“Well, that's quite the look!” The demon chuckled. He almost looked purple, surrounded by an eerie blue glow. Vincent couldn't see where the blue light was coming from, but it seemed to follow the Radio Demon as Vincent watched him walk in circles around him, like a shark swimming circles around its prey. 

Vincent knew that he probably looked like he was on the verge of death, but he didn't yet know the extent of the damage. He knew that his head and chest were bleeding, and that he probably had broken bones, deducing from all the cracking he heard. Had he also been electrocuted? Vincent felt like he had been electrocuted. Everything hurt. Vincent wanted to cry. 

“Who-what are you?” Vincent finally managed to say. His words came out a lot quieter, a lot less threatening, than he'd wanted. Vincent gasped, startled: his voice wasn't his. This voice was much deeper than Vincent's voice. It sounded almost entirely artificial. Vincent hated it. Did the demon somehow damage Vincent's vocal cords? Vincent still couldn't see much in the dark, except for the Radio Demon, who was still illuminated by that wretched blue light. Vincent watched him closely, afraid of what that thing would do to him if he looked away or let down his guard at all. As if Vincent, injured and sitting on the ground, could defend himself against an actual demon.

Vincent almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. 

“I’d ask the same of you!” the little red bastard laughed maniacally, seeming to smile even wider as his antlers grew longer, his head tilted at an impossible angle, and his pupils turned into ticking dials. 

Creepy little shit. Vincent thought. He was a bit curious: he thought for sure that the demon would be taller, but he actually seemed shorter than Vincent, who was sitting on the ground but still almost at chest-level with the Radio Demon. 

Vincent’s brows furrowed in both confusion and terror at the Radio Demon's words. He just wanted this to be over. 

If you're going to kill me, Vincent thought. Just fucking do it. Stop fucking playing with me. 

Vincent wanted to lash out, to scream at the demon. But the words just wouldn't come out. He felt sedated by the pain, which was finally only beginning to subside, and pure shock.

The Radio Demon smiled knowingly, as if reading Vincent's mind, then disappeared into thin air, but not before dropping something that clattered to the ground close to Vincent's feet. The cabin became silent, except for something that sounded like some kind of mechanical fan whirring that Vincent didn't recognize, and pitch dark except for that blue glow for which Vincent still couldn't place the source. Vincent was growing increasingly frustrated by his inability to figure out what the hell was going on.

Vincent held his breath, listening to make sure that he was truly alone. Doing so only made the fan noise seem louder.

And if you weren't alone, Vincent thought. What would you even do? You're helpless. Pathetic. 

With some hesitation, Vincent crawled over to where the Radio Demon had been standing, on hands and knees that felt too long and too heavy, picked up the tiny hand mirror, and caught his reflection. Vincent felt his heart drop, and a wave of nausea crashed over him. He wanted to throw up, but there was nothing for Vincent to throw up; he hadn't eaten since lunch. 

How much time had passed since the car accident? Hours, for sure. Maybe even days.

The room started spinning again. Now Vincent was having a panic attack.

Where his head should've been was a television, with one eye that was outlined in black and one in blue, that moved with Vincent's eyes. The screen was bright blue, and Vincent realized where that light had been coming from: a screen that was far too bright in the absolute darkness of the cabin. Antennae that sparked with electricity protruded from the top of the CRT TV, and they seemed to move with every breath that Vincent took. Vincent’s eyes widened as he realized that the blowing fan noises were coming from his head. 

Vincent looked down at his hands and gasped as he moved black fingers with long, metallic blue claws on their tips. The mirror dropped to the ground and shattered.

Vincent screamed and grabbed his head, feeling the television's corners instead of his hair. He once again began hyperventilating, which only made Vincent panic even more because breathing felt so strange with the air flowing directly through his chest instead of normally. 

Too many thoughts flew through Vincent's mind at once, which only made his fans work harder:

Did the Radio Demon do this? 

What was that female voice over the radio?

Where's Alastor? 

This isn't real.

Alastor left me to die, and the Radio Demon found me.

Why didn't the Radio Demon kill me?

Would Alastor kill me? 

Why didn't Alastor kill me?

Am I cursed?

Am I stuck like this? 

I'm hallucinating.

Am I dead?

Am I in Hell?

I deserve to go to Hell.

But I didn't deserve to die yet!

I'm just having a bad dream.

I want to go home.

Everything fucking hurts. 

Where's Alastor?

Vincent didn't know if he could go home. What if the Radio Demon was waiting outside to end him? So, he stayed in the cabin, surrounded by nothing except the blue light from his screen. The air was eerily quiet. Vincent was a little chilly. He sat back and hugged his legs, making himself as small as possible, wanting to cry. Could a television cry? Should he try to sleep? Could he still sleep? He'd have a hard time with his new head; Vincent winced at the thought of how much more neck pain he'd have in the morning if he tried to sleep with that bulky, uncomfortable head. He had work tomorrow; he couldn't show up in his…current state. Vincent felt ridiculous; he would never allow his coworkers or his boss to see him as…whatever he was now. 

This has to be a joke. 

Not only was Vincent confused, he felt humiliated by this sudden, unwanted change to his body. The television seemed like a mockery, reminding him of his failures in the entertainment industry; how he'd fallen from almost the top to somewhere even lower than the bottom of the totem pole.

My body. He took my body. Vincent thought, as if he had been fond of his scrawny, average body to begin with. I'll be myself again. I'll find a way. I have to figure this out.

All Vincent could figure out was that the Radio Demon had something to do with it; otherwise, he wouldn't have been there, with a shit-eating grin on his stupid face. 

Vincent stood up, which was more of a challenge than he'd expected: he was top-heavy and fell forward, more than once, much to his discontent. Relearning how to walk was difficult and only made Vincent angry. As he stood up for what seemed like the millionth time, he screamed in frustration, anger, and confusion; pure emotion flooding his entire system as he planted his feet on the ground.

Suddenly, there was the sound of fans moving at full speed, a flash of blue light, the smell of electricity, and a hole burst through one of the cabin walls. Vincent was knocked off his feet by the blast, and frantically looked around, trying to locate the source. Was someone else here, coming back to finally put Vincent out of his misery? The night was still quiet, except for the sound of fans working hard to cool off Vincent's head. 

Did I do that? Vincent thought. Unbeknownst to Vincent, his screen flushed a lighter blue, just beneath his eyes, as he looked down at his hands. He thought about electricity, about controlling it, guiding it with his hands, and his fingertips glowed with dancing blue sparks that seemed to be inviting him to put them to use. 

Vincent’s eyes widened in disbelief and awe. At first, he was nothing except confused and ashamed, but knowing that he could create electricity changed his shame to wonder. Vincent stood back up (he was finally getting the hang of it), still looking at his hands in astonishment. 

What else can I do?