Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alastor strolled onto the balcony over the main lobby, looking out on all the sinners wanting redemption. The air was thick with hope; it was quite the sickening sight. Yet, somewhat entertaining. Most of these wayward souls had no shot at bettering themselves. And the more people, the more disappointment and suffering would come in tow.

That was the idea, anyhow, but Charlie, after her own failings on inspiring before, managed to minimize people's hurt. With definite proof, her silly dream was possible, not to mention people desperate to cling onto the next big thing after that whole thing with that foolish TV Head blowing up half the Pentagram City with a holy laser.

He gave it a month tops! But then it passed, and it's been what? Three months? Still, people held onto that optimism. That's not entertaining at all!

Glancing over to the bar, Husker was even grumpier than his usual self. For months, the cat had ignored Alastor to the best of his ability, choosing instead to take out his silly issues on others—not that it was shocking. Husker had always tried his best to ignore him until Alastor forced his will upon him. Still, it irked him that all the cat could think about was "Angel this," and "Angel that." It was utterly tedious.

Husk insisted that, since the Vees' entire brand was still visibly tainted by the sheer incompetence of Vox, the collective was the weakest they had ever been. And naturally, this would present Alastor with the perfect opportunity to dismantle the pathetic remainder of their little trio. But truly, Husker’s only pressing interest was to liberate that insipid porn star. He had to say, desperation was certainly not a good look on his little pet. Alastor would have been delighted to torment him, but the fellow's lovestruck expression made him genuinely sick to look at. He simply refused to lower himself to such a tawdry display.

Alastor was still standing on the balcony observing when Charlie and Vaggie burst through the doors right past him. Must be urgent if they didn't even bother to greet him.

Ah, yes. Charlie was all over the place, too busy with all the new guests. The eye bags she was sporting were quite the sight. Last time he noticed them was with the impending battle with Adam. Ah, the poor thing was burning herself out. It was quite fun to see her run around, but it quickly grew stale. A predictable rerun. He tried holding a conversation with her, but the conversations consisted of more of a few sentences, as her short little attention span noticed something that was assumingly more important, and he was quickly dismissed! The nerve.

Like any lowlife sinners were more "important" to talk to.

Charlie is quite oblivious; she fails to see or sense when most other sinners are uninterested in her latest scheme, and simply demands that they comply. Sure, the princess believes she is doing others a favor of some kind. She even makes most believe it's what they want. Oh, the mind games she not only plays with her guests, but mostly herself too! It would be hilarious! If it didn't piss Alastor off.

Its like he could hear her voice as clear as day.

“Alastor, can you put extra chairs in the foyer? More sinners decided to join the shared therapy session, ah! Can you believe it? And also, if you have time, pretty please, the toilet upstairs is clogged. Again—and and oh my gosh, I gotta go, shit. Uh, seeya, Alastor!”

He is not some slave for her to boss him around. She didn't even thank him last time when he graciously helped her with her pointless endeavor.

Looking away from the princess, he saw the sinners she spoke to. He squinted his eyes at the scene. Most of the sinners avoided him, stared at him from a distance, or simply did not care about Alastor’s presence at all! How infuriating. Did no one here have any backbone? Well, maybe it was to be expected from people seeking redemption. Having a riveting conversation seemed to be lacking in these parts. Moments like this made him regret coming back, yet there was one person who gave him all the entertainment he could want.

Ah yes, the King himself. He felt the corner of his mouth stretch even more. That annoying, short little fool was too easy! Honestly, he couldn't wait to topple him and get even more powerful. He just had to play his cards right. Hell’s precious King was the reason he even went back to the hotel in the first place—his new show would be better than the last. It would be his greatest performance yet! And that pompous, prideful fool had the audacity to just disappear?!

Alastor was not done tormenting that stupid angel. It had been around a month since he decided to be a deadbeat dad once again. This, too, would be quite amusing if it wasn't pissing him off even more than usual. Truly a coward.

Yet, looking over to Charlie again, she did not seem distraught in the slightest, or maybe she was just ignorant to people around her when she focused on a goal. But even Vaggie seemed to be in high spirits; she was more of a true compass on the real affairs going on. They must have talked before the King departed. Yet when he asked about her precious dad, she dismissed it. So, his whereabouts were not to be known? It must be. Charlie loved to run her mouth, and even she was being obviously strategic with her words.

He waited to see if he would “pop back in,” as they say, but there was nothing for an entire month. And he could feel himself grow more bored each day. It seemed like everyone was ignoring him—which was a silly notion to think about, but as each month passed, it seemed more palpable.

A thought came to him, and he dismissed it as quickly as it came.

Rosie, after he forced the deal upon her to repair his staff and power, their relationship seemed rather passive-aggressive. To others, nothing seemed amiss. She was just good at hiding it. Admittedly, she was the only person who had any intellectual conversation skills, and some part of him missed their banter and talks over tea—a tug of longing he quickly crushed. That witch had trapped him in a very specific deal he could never fulfill, and he was finally free now. He didn't need her, her conversation, or her company.

As his mind calmed down, he realized something he had never quite given thought to before, as it was as common as breathing by now: Vox’s drones no longer surrounded the hotel, no longer followed him. It made him think even the Vees had better things to do than watch what Alastor was up to.

In the past, it would have been a relief to be rid of those fools and their prying eyes on everything going on, but now it was the last straw. Was the hotel—no, was he—not worth spying on anymore?

And Vox—Ha! That stupid box, who had tried to kill everyone and himself. True, the TV played into his game perfectly, freeing him at last; that obsessed fool was also easy to manipulate. Vox must have regenerated and been back to fixing the damage to his reputation by now, yet Alastor had not been bothered enough to check upon him or the Vees.

But now that there was nothing from Vox... Sure, entertaining Vox was the bottom of the barrel. Even a second of thinking of it made Alastor's smile drop slightly. Truly, he was in desperate times.

Sighing at his consideration, an explosion drew him out of his thoughts. A very loud lady—Cherri, was her name?—shouted something. It was the same wall Charlie had so politely asked him to fix, what was it, ten times now?

Alastor decided he didn't want to deal with whatever this was, before they made it his problem, and teleported by shadow out of the hotel entirely.

Gripping his cane, he strolled in front of some stores and restaurants. Most Sinners, seeing him, turned the other way or simply froze. He usually did not walk the specific path he took, as it had the most cameras, but he wanted something to happen—to soothe his boredom, of course!

Taking the fastest route to their territory, alastor took still took his time. observing some window displays on the way. maybe he would find something intresting. 

But it was also a faliure, as Alastor unsatisfied with the boring thrash people were selling. rolled his eyes. At least the TV Head had been, to some extent, a reliable source of adequate entertainment in the past. Yet, he had not heard or seen the other, which was quite strange considering Vox's obsessive nature to pry into anything Alastor did. But Vox never failed to be predictable before so he kept going.

After a while of walking, there was nothing. He even taunted every camera he passed; that was enough of an invitation in his books!

He saw some TVs displaying commercials, yet there was no Vox on them—no reruns or anything related to the other. Most sinners, too caught up in watching whatever slop was on didnt run away or care that alastor stolled up behind them. infact they decided to be darlings and give him an interesting fact.

"This shit is so ass,” one sinner said. "Yeah, I know, right. I know Vox was like crazy and shit, but damn, at least he was more entertaining than this bullshit."

Alastor decided to ask, as even without Vox’s power controlling people to not look away from the screen, the fools—stating the truth that the content was trash—were still glued to the screen. People's standards were absurdly low. he chimed in anyhow.

"Oh, and does any of you gentlemen know what happened to Vox?” 

Still glued to the screen, people around him started to chatter. Alastor turned his ears in each direction as the people were chatting.

"I heard the other Vees used him as an iPad." "No way! He died, man. No one has seen him." "Pulease, if I were Vox, and I wasn't dead, I'd just kill myself. He fell off, hard."

"I don't care that he killed my roommate with a huge ass laser, man. Like, shit, they stopped selling the drones after he went crazy. How am I supposed to spy on my sexy neighbor now?!”

Alastor had heard enough of the people's chatter. He had gotten the information he needed and decided to move on. How fascinating. No one had seen the TV. Yet, a little out of the norm, the attention-seeking fool that was Vox, for once, didn't seem to want to be found—how strange. 

Alastor kept going until he was at the edge of the Vees' territory. There was no formal line to cross, but the sudden, nauseating contrast of the architecture—shifting from muted brick to an awful, aggressive neon eyesore— that was line enough. He stepped onto the street. Screens flashed with pop-up ads and grotesque neon signs everywhere, an absurd, amount of cameras monitoring every inch of every street corner.

Vox always considered Alastor's presence here a challenge. Strutting forward, Alastor flashed every camera a predatory grin, waiting for the instantaneous retaliation of the TV demon.

And—nothing, yet

Since Vox refused to show, Alastor opted to see if there was anything worth looking at in this so-called "Entertainment District." as he walked He noted all the sexual depravity everywhere—no class, and quite crude. Sinners were drooling at displays of naked women and men. Alastor simply walked past them.

Then, as he was nearing the center, some Sinners ran past him, following a stream of other hurried Sinners. Alastor allowed himself to be carried closer to the center by following the commotion, where the V Tower loomed—tall and quite ugly in his sights now.

A huge crowd drew him near. there was an obnoxious loud noise, if one could call it music. A crowd had formed around a flashing light show. Intrigued by the spectacle, Alastor strolled closer. Most Sinners here were so utterly focused on the screens and displays that they lacked all awareness, yet knowing these fools have no capacity for anything more, Alastor still felt pointedly ignored. He pushed the irritation away as he recognized it as irrelevant, as a familiar voice suddenly blasted on the speakers.

“Okay, my lovelies. This is my newest line, Hot Girl Summer Collection, and we are streaming it live! And yes! Your eyes do not deceive you! We are doing it outside of the V Tower. The homeless and beggars will be a great contrast to the prestigious outfits you are about to see.”

Alastor tilted his head as he walked even closer to the scene.

“This one is called 'My Bitch Ex Wishes They Could Get a Piece of This'," followed up by “'Cuntology Degree.' It comes with a removable chest opening. Ahh, it's all to die for. I really outdid myself on this one, my poppets.”

“Next... Hey, what the absolute fuck? What is messing up my feed? MELISSAH, GET THIS SHIT BACK! Oh, oh, no way."

Alastor was now in front of most people, looking at the designs at the scene edge. His eyes roamed around, seeing the cameras, then it landed on Velvette on the stage to the side.

"You finally grew some taste and came to see my fashion show, old man? You could use some inspiration because, fuck, your suit is so out of fashion, it needed to be burnt like yesterday."

"Not that I would turn away," she said, looking him up and down. "Anyone looking to be hotter with this collection. But, babe, you are fucking up my feed. So, either cut that shit out, or move away from the stage, mm-kay?"

Alastor tightened his smile as he glanced at the different cameras to the side of the stage. a agesture picked up on from the other.

"Wait, no, no way. You are looking for Vox, aren't you? That loser hasn't given you all his attention yet?"

Alastor sharply snapped his eyes back to Velvette—a mistake.

"Oh, OH! This is hilarious! You are just as obsessed with him." There was a hint of passive-aggressiveness as she looked at her phone, snapping photos of new outfits on the models.

“Don't be ridiculous, my dear. I heard quite the commotion and went to see what all the fuss was about. But, since you mentioned it. it is quite strange how you let me walk in here. Vox would not have allowed that in the past, yeah?”

“Vox is not here, babe. Don't know where that fucker is hiding, and frankly, I don't fucking care. I don't have time for his bullshit, or frankly, yours. I have a show to run. So get the fuck to the side, or leave.”

“Oh, I would never want to ruin your lovely little show; that would be quite rude, wouldn't it?” Alastor turned on his heel and left. Velvette wasted no time with any remark or comment, returning to the show, giving no mind to Alastor roaming in her territory.

Not even the other V seemed to know what had become of Vox, or as she put it, they did not have any time to care if Vox decided to self-destruct. The moth had not even taken Vox back. How amusing.

Alastor had acquired himself a petty little mystery: determining whether Vox was truly gone or simply—and quite boringly—deceased. Disappointingly, he didn't even have to try. That familiar, annoying static, the one only Vox’s frequency brought when crashing against his own, festered aggressively in the air. It was a strong, irritating indicator that the Television Demon was, in fact, alive.

Although Vox’s frequency was shorter than his own radio waves, he simply followed the signal until he found the other. This invisible line led him away from the garish glow of the V Tower's neon display, directing him to the very edge of the Vees' dominion, closer to the quieter turf of Cannibal Town. Alastor stopped, allowing his gaze to sweep over a grimy, forgotten establishment—a cheap, crumbling bar marked only by a dim, half-broken sign. So Vox was slumped in the dingy obscurity of some random bar at the less neon-filled edge of his own territory. How strange of the Box.

Trying the door, it was locked. Well, that won't do! Alastor slid into his shadow form and bypassed the barricaded entrance by oozing under the cracked door. It seemed to have been violently nailed shut from the inside with pathetic, trashed pieces of scrap wood. Fascinating.

Alastor paid no mind to the appalling mess inside—broken furniture and shattered glass scattered across every corner of the hallway. He simply continued to creep, his shadow form sliding across the filth until he found the other.

And there he was. Vox was practically swimming in a sea of empty, discarded bottles. Alastor immediately registered that something was profoundly off. The Television Demon had never been one to drink away his pain, certainly not in the days when Alastor knew him; if anything, he was a celebratory drinker, a connoisseur of his own success.

Vox was clearly diminished. Gone was the sharp, volatile spark that usually drove him to relentlessly prove his superiority. This was not the Vox Alastor knew. Historically, in the face of defeat, the Television Demon would typically tend his wounds and immediately begin plotting his revenge. That tactical competence of not wasting any time, at least, made him a tolerable rival. Now? This current state he was witnessing resembled nothing of it.

Alastor nestled in the dark corner, waiting for Vox to make his move.

Surely Vox must have felt his presence by now. Even in his drunken state, he should be able to detect his static.

Alastor settled deeper into the dark corner, perfectly camouflaged, waiting for Vox to make his move. Surly, even in this pathetic, drunken state, Vox must have detected the faint intrusion of alastors radio static. The sinner's inertia was utterly unlike him. If Vox was aware of his presence and deliberately delaying, it became a two-player game, and patience was never the Television Demon's strong suit. He cannot possibly win this. Alastor watched the motionless figure with a dangerously tilted head, convinced that this passive resistance was a test. It had to be.

The quiet, however, stretched into a mocking silence.

The only sign of time passing was the slow, steady drip of liquor from a fractured bottle neck. Two minutes felt like ten. Ten minutes felt like an hour. The sheer audacity of the wait was beginning to become ridiculous! Vox had not shifted from that blasted chair, only small, listless movements to raise his glass.

Alastor began to distract himself by analyzing the room. So this is what truly became of Vox after his delusional plan to overtake all of Heaven? Hiding away in a forgotten, rundown bar? Strangely, Vox's insistence on constant technological "upgrading" didn't apply here. There were no awful neon stripes or ugly modern furniture. Instead, the air was stale with ancient smoke embedded into every crevice, surrounding a rich wooden bar and antique details. It was a space so devoid of recent activity, if the dust and debris scattered everywhere was an indicator of abandonment. This place didn't fit into the V’s territory at all.

The scene before him was pathetic—even by Vox’s standards. The TV had never hidden for this long. Alastor knew that Vox’s past retreats had always been calculated, meant to repair his fragile screen and even more fragile ego, but this time was different. There was no strategy, no recovery—only self-pity.

Alastor wasn’t entirely surprised. Some part of him had always known this collapse was inevitable. Still, he needed Vox to be his old self. What pleasure was there in tormenting someone so inert, so stripped of the flashy bravado that once made the game worthwhile? Vox still didn’t move. And now Alastor could see it clearly: there was no game at all. The TV wasn’t playing—he was simply broken.

That won't do at all!

Deciding to step out of the shadows, Alastor strolled over to the bar where Vox sat.

“My, what a distasteful display,” Alastor commented, gesturing to the mess Vox had made at the bar. “Not to mention the lack of manners, not even a greeting!?”

Alastor grabbed one of the barstools and used a black tentacle to shove away a pile of bottles from where he wanted to sit.

“Tell me, Vox, why are you not at that ugly tower you call home, hmm? Don’t tell me your precious minions locked you out?”

Alastor conjured up his own drink, fresh ice clinking at the bottom. He twirled it, chuckling to himself, and looked over to Vox. But the other demon didn't even turn to look back at him.

“What? Nothing to say?” Alastor pressed. “I must say, Vox, it has been quite some time since your glorious fiasco. How does it feel to have had it all? For, hmm, about ten minutes, before fucking everything up.” Alastor laughed at his own jab, sharp teeth on display.

Finally, Vox moved, giving him something. Vox raised his head, then turned it slightly to look at Alastor. His screen glitched slightly and showed some static, yet he didn't answer Alastor.

“Oh, don’t tell me you went mute. Hmm, actually, maybe that is an improvement. Your voice was always quite irritating.”

Nothing. Still no comeback. Not even a sign of emotion flashing over his features. Vox simply stared at him blankly. The TV must truly be gone out of his mind. Alastor wondered if Vox's feeble little brain even register that he was there.

“Since I am quite generous,” Alastor felt a spike of irritation, “I decided to pay you a little visit. I came to see your pitiful display for myself, but this,” he gestured to the other, “this is not entertaining, Vox. Where is the showmanship? If you are going to lose—and you do that a lot, huh—how about you finally learn how to lose in style?”

Nothing. Vox even looked away from him, back to staring at his drink. Alastor’s smile dropped slightly. Why that little—why was that TV ignoring him? Vox never managed to contain his silly feelings before. He should be fuming with rage. Delusional, showing his hatred, anything!

“It seems you have been drinking too much to appreciate my gracious visit,” Alastor said through gritted teeth, his smile tightening. “You are not even in your right mind now. Drowning your sorrows in what, cheap booze? At least get the good stuff if you are going to execute this sad excuse for self-pity.”

Alastor laughed as he drank down the rest of his own cocktail. What a waste of time.

Nothing. Vox said nothing. Maybe the other was more damaged after his head got ripped off. He slammed the glass down on the counter.

“Alastor?”

So the fool can speak. Good.

“You, you—found me?” Vox slurred his words. Alastor saw how Vox’s gaze didn't look at him. He simply spoke into the air.

“Please, it was ridiculously easy. Honestly, did you even try to hide?” Alastor waved his hand dismissively as he spoke.

“No, I didn't try to, hide—you—fuck. Where is my bottle? Oh, here it is—”

“I must say, this one is one of my, uh, my better hallucinations.”

“I’m not a hallucination, you absolute buffoon.”

“Funny, that’s what a hallucination would say, hmm.” Vox giggled as he grabbed the bottle next to him in one smooth motion—impressive for how drunk he was.

But that wasn't what Alastor would let happen. This fool was too drunk to even believe Alastor was real. As Vox went for a swing straight from e bottle, Alastor’s tentacle yanked the bottle out of his hand and threw it behind the bar.

Even as the bottle was ruined in an unimpressive little crack, the remaining liquid spilling out, Vox still said nothing. He just looked at his hand where the drink had disappeared.

“Hmm. No way, you can’t be real.” Vox slurred his words. Alastor gave him a quick, are you serious look. Alastor had physically altered something, and he still—

“I know you are not real, because Alastor would never try and find me. He would not start a chat with me for the sake of conversing, shit. He would probably, probably, just laugh in my face, and—fuck, where is my bottle?”

The display left much to be desired, yet it seemed Alastor was indeed still on Vox’s drunken mind, at least.

“I don't like repeating myself, and you know this, Vox. So I won't. This was a waste of time, and you are too. Adieu.”

“Naaaah,” Vox drew out, his voice glitching slightly. He finally managed to turn his head, focusing on something just to Alastor's side instead of on him. “You won’t leave.” For the love of—drunk and useless, spewing nonsense. “I conjured you up. I’ll make you stay.” Another violent glitch made his screen flicker.

“Well, do you imagine me insulting and humiliating you willingly? That takes away all the fun for me, you know.”

Vox wore a stupid expression of something fond across his face, a soft smile Alastor had only seen a lifetime ago directed at him. Truly, the Television Demon was malfunctioning.

Alastor should just leave; he had gotten nothing he wanted from Vox. Yet, he was slightly amused at the pathetic display Vox’s delusions created. Certainly better than being bossed around at the hotel.

Vox was still staring past him, then finally managed to meet his gaze, the smile widening. “It’s nice. Nice to see you again.”

What? Alastor had driven a wedge in Vox’s plans, ruined his alliances with the other Overlords, and humiliated him for decades. And he was glad to see Alastor now?

“F-fuck, it’s not fair! How are you so—cool—so sexy—I mean, fuck! Your stupid smile—” Vox slurred, giving a wobbly grin. “Actually, shit. You know what? It is, it is - im glad I’m getting to see you. I just wish my head would at least make you a little more, uhm—not a fucking asshole. But anything to sell the illusion, I’m I right?”

Vox laughed loudly, trying to reach out and playfully elbow Alastor as if they had shared the funniest joke. Alastor was nowhere near close enough for the attempt to connect. The effort, combined with the laughter, resulted in Vox’s body tipping backward with an unimpressive thud onto the floor.

Alastor tilted his head, observing the sprawl.

Ah, if only he had fallen face-first. Maybe the impact would crack that fragile screen of his. But the only impressive feat Vox could muster was how he hadn't fallen off the stool sooner. Alastor stood over the demon, intending to leave, but opted to take in Vox’s pathetic state one last time.

Vox lay still, staring blankly up at the ceiling. At least Alastor’s mere existence causes Vox misery still, a huff of an almost laugh escaped him. the Small victories.

But then the fool laughed again, joyfully at first, then quietly. “HAHA. Fuck, I need to stop talking to myself.”

“You were always a sentimental drunkard, Vox,” Alastor commented, his tone flat.

“Only for you.” Vox struggled to focus his eyes on Alastor and gave up quickly. “I—I missed you. I missed us. Back before things went to shit.”

Good. More nonsensical rambling.

“No one ever made me feel the way you did, Al. I still have no idea why. I never understood why you never considered us friends. We- we shared everything: talks, walks. You even let me have a few of your kills. You helped me grow my power! And we—we used to dance! You told me I was entertaining.” Vox made no effort to rise from the damp floor, which was slick with alcohol and debris. His voice mumbled low toward the end, but Alastor heard every word.

“I guess you are quite right, Vox. You used to be entertaining. As in the past tense.” Alastor didn't have time for this sentimental drivel.

“Miss you being in that f-fucking chair. You looked so good—UGH. Haha, did you know,” a pause, “the day I asked you to join forces, I think about it all the time. I thought about why you would be so cruel. Your weird obsession with doing things yourself. You jab at me for needing others, when—when, ugh…” Alastor didn’t know why he allowed the slurred monologue to continue. Though half-drunk, the words were clear enough to sting together..

“I didn’t n-need you!” Vox tried to move, then gave up instantly it seemed.

“I didn't need your pow-er, you red fuck. I just—I just wanted you around. F-fuck, I was—I w-was in love with you!” A violent, system-wide glitch rattled the demon.

This entire trip was a mistake. Vox had yet to provide anything of substance, anything new. Alastor could only hope the fool would snap out of this ancient game. Back then, Alastor shut him down instantly. Didn't Vox know better now? There were no friends in Hell, and especially not the love he spoke of. Alastor was doing the fool a favor by uprooting this weakness, so he could be cruel, great, and a worthy rival. Still all this time and he still hasn't let it go.

“Goodbye then, Vox. It was certainly not a pleasure.” Alastor turned his back, summoning half of his shadow form, ready to teleport out, deeply dissatisfied.

“Well—fuck you th-then!” Vox processed the farewell, a small spark of spite finally shining through, though his features didn't match the malice. A singular tear tracked down the corner of his screen.

“I c-can be entertaining! I am entertaining! But you won't give me a chance, you cruel piece of shit, you have no heart—I hate you so much.”

“Maybe if you weren't quite so drunk, I’d consider tormenting you. But it seems as long as you are like this, no one wants you.” Alastor spoke the words without any showmanship or malice, his radio voice almost gone for it; it would have been wasted on the demon. He ignored the slight disappointment he felt, realizing he had been foolish enough to depend on Vox’s predictability to satisfy his itch for entertainment.

Alastor teleported out of the Vees’ territory. Gods, that was—a mess. And not even the fun, bloody kind.

He still felt acutely unsatisfied. And his rage surged, Alastor killed and consumed two sinners on his way back to the hotel. He could practically hear Charlie scolding him: Cursed princess, embedded in his mind. Think of the hotel’s reputation, Alastor! If our benefactor goes and kills and eats potential residents!

The thought of containment was unbearable now that his deal was free. Alastor hated how the impulse lingered, carving space in his mind. So he killed a few more, splattering them across the street like used-up chew toys, just because he could.

A trail of bodies was left in his wake as he strolled up to the hotel again. His itch was not scratched. He was still bored, but now he was also annoyed, and on edge—not that Alastor let it show. He smiled all the same.

At the door, he saw the hole from the earlier had been patched up, poorly and distastefully. There was screaming from inside and a sense of sadness in the air. It excited him for only a second when he entered, then the feeling was snuffed out just as fast. He noticed a circle of sinners. Some talked and cried, but they were smiling. The screaming was cheering. How utterly gross. The place still reeked of hope.

Alastor made his presence known, waiting for a confrontation, anything. He was dragging dried blood onto the floor and flicking off a piece of a recent victim that clung to his shoulder.

Yet, no one commented on his bloody attire, his sudden presence, or the fact that he had been gone all day. So he walked slowly to his quarters, observing how no one paid him any mind, drowning out the ambient hope. He didn't need any of them anyway—until he saw Niffty, obsessively cleaning the hallway, and stopped to admire her.

Ah, yes, Niffty. She was simple in her joy, endlessly entertained by her cleaning, as filthy as this place got. She would never run out of passion. Oh! How Alastor envied that contentment.

Niffty turned, saw Alastor, and vibrated with enhanced joy, zipping next to him in a blink.

“Alastor, you are back!” She ran circles around him.

How loyal. The only good thing here, it seemed.

“Ah, my dear Niffty, I hope you didn't miss me too much. It seems you have been quite busy, hmm?”

“You are quite messy, Alastor. Did you kill someone?”

“Oh, yes indeed, multiple, in fact. You should have heard their screams and pleas. Quite the show.”

“Oh man! And you didn't let me come!?”

“Next time, for sure.”

“Hehe, okay.” Niffty’s attention kept bouncing from him to the walls.

“Oh, where are my manners, my dear? It seems you were quite enjoying cleaning this hallway.”

“Yess! There is this blue stain on one of the walls that I can't get out! Yet! But I’ll get it, hehe! What are you doing, Alastor?”

“It’s been a while, but I suppose I’m going to have to make my own entertainment. It’s been a hot minute since I graced the sinners with my voice.”

Niffty kept vibrating on the spot. He knew she was desperate to get back to the wall. She deserved her joy.

“Please go back to what you were doing, dear. I have a show to host. Run along, Niffty.”

He waved his hand in a circular motion, a dismissive gesture that directed her back to her work. He then walked to his room.

A good broadcast will surely lighten his mood.

Chapter Text

Vox slumped on the cold metal barstool, staring at the pathetic ocean of empty glasses he had smashed or nearly emptied. His ass and back ached from the relentless hardness of the metal. How long had he sat here? Hours? Days? Well, it didn't matter. No one had bothered to contact him—not Vel or Val. So who cared? Fuck—

He had wanted to show them a piece of their own medicine. He had planned to show them precisely how childish they were being when they ignored his calls, how the empire he had built would crumble without him, how they still needed him. But they hadn't even contacted him, because they didn't need to. The empire, the business, was doing fine without him. And it hurt.

It had been a little while since that day. Vox reminisced back on the events, like an annoying feedback loop used to torment himself. "Damage control." Yeah, that's all it was.

The memories flashed on his screen.

He remembers losing control over the laser as Velvette had kicked him. Disoriented, the memories flashed like a slideshow. He remembered Alastor's stupid smile, how he wanted the gesture wiped off that bastard’s smug face. Nothing had mattered. He remembers Valentino screaming at him, ripping his head off. He was thrown to the side. Things got a little blurry; there was singing. Even Val and Vel joined in. His head lay against some rubble. He remembers saying something. Oh yeah. They were all ruining his plan. His moment. He felt his head glitch and struggled to stay on. It all went black.

As he came to, his screen turned on, flickering and giving him visuals. he saw the ground. So, he wasn't dead, which means they managed to defuse the weapon-turned-bomb. A tug of disappointment flashed over Vox. He felt his body was nearby, a low hum of it. How long has he been broken, beaten? Vox managed to spew cables out of his head to drag him to where the broken body lay. His head reached out with wires to his detached body, each string and cord reattaching at the neck.

The recovery to connect his body to his head was slower and more painful than Vox would admit. Groaning as he tried to maneuver his legs to stand up. Wobbling, he fell to his knees.

Why did Vel and Val abandon him on the ground here? All the other Overlords and sinners had left. He blacked out for a second there. But it had to be longer, because it was oddly quiet—no blood-curdling screams in the background or gunshots going off. The silence was strange, especially for Hell. He looked at the time and saw it. He had been offline for two days. Two? How is that possible?

No one had come to shout at him or mock him. Even after everything he had done. Not Vel or Val, not that righteous princess. Not any other Overlords, and most strange of all, no other sinners.

Maybe because his screen went blank for a hot minute there, people didn't bother to gloat. His body lay there untouched by anyone, simply forgotten. Like it was not woth enough to fuck with. He should be thankful that no one is seeing him this powerless and weak—so why, why does silence sting so much worse?

Abandoned, like he was some old trash to be discarded. Him!? He had possibly gone a little overboard. But they all lived, so it should be water under the bridge, really!

After what felt like hours, Vox felt his entire body connect with his mind. Finally. The first thing he did when he felt he connected to the internet again was look online at his ratings.

Habits die hard. As the graph he witnessed plummeted to the lowest point he'd ever seen, a small glitch and a bar code flashed over his screen. He could feel it. His powers were so weak; the vibrant electricity he usually didn't think about was dulled to a pathetic hum.

A low chuckle escaped him. “Yeah, that's fine. Totally fine! No, really!” He could build himself back up. He wouldn't let this be the end. He was the CEO of Voxtek, he was the biggest media Overlord, he was the one who should control the narrative here, for fuck’s sake!

A manic laugh built up in his core; it almost started to border on hysteria, but it died down fast, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. His head played his own actions over and over—a humiliating loop—and he felt his forced smile falter.

He tried calling Valentino. The moth would understand. They had been business partners for decades. Valentino would not do this to him! Val needed Vox; he platformed his movies. He put up with his tantrums. He satisfied and kept him entertained. 

Yet that stupid moth didn't pick up. Figures. If he were pissed at Vox, he would act like such a little bitch. But Vox always managed to mend it, once Val was bored or horny enough to come back. Things just needed to cool down. Still, Vox couldn't help rolling his eyes at the dial tone. Val had hung up. He swiped the call away, calling Velvette instead. The ringing tone only lasted two beeps until the line went dead there, too. No way, her phone is off or dead.
“This bitch…” she hung up on him!? He tried calling again. This time it only rang once. Then, the dial tone. "Fuck, shit, SHIT! Okay. OKAY! This is not good.” Maybe he actually had to, ugh—apologize to them. He may have been a little carried away in the end; there—a memory crashed to the front.

“You are not killing us over that stupid deer!”

Alastor. Fucking Alastor! That annoying twink deer aggrieved him so much. Everything was perfect. Alastor was his captive, the weapon, his plan to rule Heaven. He was finally going to win. He had respect. He was the strongest sinner in Hell. He had Alastor; he had it all. And it slipped out like sand in his palm.

Shutting the memories down, Vox tried to let the natural electric pull of the grid teleport him to his quarters, but he felt too weak to make the jump.“Great,” he thought, his screen momentarily fizzing with frustration, “my teleportation has decided to abandon me as well! Fuck that!”

Vox brushed dirt and debris off his suit and dragged his still-wobbling body back toward the tower. Humiliating as it was, trying to enter by the entrance, the door didn't budge. He couldn't get in. Why couldn't he get in?

They had locked him out of his own tower. How did they even have time to do that!? "Fuck that, I own this building! They can't do this shit to me!" His voice was strained and high-pitched, echoing his panic.

He raised his voice, calling out to the empty lobby from the outside. "Val, Vel, I may have fucked up, but we can spin this. Come on! Open the door!" No one answered. All the employees who saw him through the glass—his employees—avoided looking his way, their eyes fixed on the floor or the ceiling. 

Vox tried to call Shock.Wav, but the call bounced back with his own voice as a recorded message. "Shock.Wav is sleeping right now. DO NOT DISTURB! If you know what’s good for you..."

Vox sighed. His entire body ached. All he wanted was to lie down in a bed, but everyone clearly had decided to be petty assholes!. He could spin the narrative; he could fix this, if only someone would talk to him. Anyone!

He turned on his heels and walked straight over to the other side of the road, to the building he gifted his Business partner., a motel of sorts where people could rent out for a fun time. He helped design it, so he knew there were a few decent back rooms he could use. But the receptionist denied him.

“Umm, no, sorry, sweetie. We have no rooms available right now, mm, yeah.”

“THE FUCK? There is no one here, you stupid little—do you know who I am!?” His voice was raw.

“Hmmmm, wait... no. Oh, yes, um, no, I lost it,” she mumbled, vaguely waving a hand.

“Don't play fucking coy with me, lady. I will kill you.” Vox hated how this low trash acted like she hadn't heard of him. She was in his territory. He was on every screen.

He pointed a finger at her, trying to channel electricity to shoot through her. But nothing happened. No build-up, no static, just the pathetic stiffness of his own hand. He was truly depleted.

"Wait! I do remember a sad little TV man that hangs around our great savior, Valentino," she chirped. "Ah, I didn't know he was quite so charitable, too, keeping sad things like you company."

Vox felt his internal fans scream with rage, followed quickly by the familiar ache of low power. He couldn't afford a spectacle. He lowered his hand, knowing he wouldn't derail his healing progress over petty grievances. He simply locked his gaze on her face, a mental archive clicking her into memory. When he was back on top, she would get what was coming to her. Plastering on a fake smile Vox played along.

"Ah, ha, haaa—yes, VaLENtIno, our savior?" Vox didn't have the energy for this bullshit. This stupid, weak body. And stupid trash daring to talk back to him. He just turned and left. The woman said nothing, already returning to her task.

Vox felt numb. Reality crashed down on him again. Repeating, like this time he might belive it. His systems had been offline for, what, a couple of... what was it?—DAYS!? Fuck. All  of this

He couldn't demand or manipulate people in this state, especially not stubborn sinners. Valentino and Velvette had already spun the narrative to their advantage. Fuck.

He wouldn't deal with the other Overlords. Knowing how his own teammates reacted. But he was not sleeping in a dumpster or some shit. Ugh.

Vox scanned his memories: the drone footage he had stored in his memory card, the cameras, all the sinners uploading random pictures and information. But as he scanned through the vast data stream for anything useful. placeses or information, he saw flashes of static.

Alastor.

His mind glitched for a second, then from it surfaced a memory he had buried: a place, abandoned, on the edge of his territory, near Rosie. Maybe that's why he got away with it. The old-shit aesthetic just fit. He used to frequent that place, back when he was a new Overlord. No. It was more than that. He remembered this—this stupid building was one of the first buildings he had acquired back in the day.

Vox feeling drained from simply shuffelig through his own memory storage, felt humiliating, defeated by his own brain- as he tried Not thinking much of it, he automatically started walking towards the building.

Vox remembered more as he dragged his body closer to his destination. Small flashed that connected to the next and the next!

Yeah, he used to kill every trespasser who tried to vandalize or trash the place—every dirty homeless sinner thinking of crashing there. He remembered stocking the shelves with old drinks to complete the scene. To what end? To keep a memory of the past with him.

He had even kept a radio in a back room for Alastor seventy years ago. And then never removed it. He kept an old vinyl player because Alastor had found the craftsmanship pleasing while passing a shop a lifetime ago, collecting trinkets of Alastor’s liking.

Stupid. Fuck. He kept all this shit, but he got so focused on business with Val and Vel that he forgot it existed. No. No he-he didn't forget. He chose to put it way back in his mind. Ha. Why shouldn't he have? He didn't need sentiment or old memories. He focused on the future.

Yet, a tiny chuckle escaped vox as he passed though the streets. how fuckinh amusing that this place—a relic of his past—would offer him refuge from his own downfall. How stupid. 

When he finally arrived, it seemed someone had broken in before, judging by the busted lock. Vox easily pushed the creaking door open with a push of his finger. He strolled in, taking in the place. It looked a little trashed, but  also looked the same as how he remembered it. Not too bad—definitely better than a dumpster.

Looking back at the door, he didn't want the unwanted company of some crackhead, or random sinner strolling in; that would be annoying.

Remembering there was a room with supplies, he wondered if it still had anything left in it. Wasting no time, he went to the backroom and found some shitty tools, a washing mop, and nails—bingo! As he walked back to the door, he noted that most of the items were surprisingly still there. He used the planks and scrap he gathered to seal the window and door.

The bottles in the locked backroom were still there. Whoever had broken in wasn't into drinking, or taking much of anything it seemed. Just a mess in front of the bar display, with most of the bottles smashed.

But the ones on the top shelves still caught the light, sparkling as if calling out, despite the grime and dirt coating almost everything in the room.

Fuck it. If he were here, why shouldn't he drink? He needed the heat to die down anyway. He knew the sinners; he knew Velvette and Valentino—they'd jump onto the next big thing soon enough.

Slouching over the bar, he grabbed the first bottle that wasn't broken. He didn't care what it was. He just needed to be drunk.

And there he was , He drank bottle after bottle. Somewhere in the blur, he started replaying old memories—his rise to power. He told himself it was strategy planning, proof he could do it again. But as soon as he replayed the feelings, the words, his focus dissolved. He lost time, just reliving the good days.

It felt good. He considered many times going back to Velvette and Val, making them understand, but he seemed to snap out of the thoughts seconds later. He wouldn't bend and crawl back on his knees. They all needed him

As the booze burned down his throat, the ache dulled, and the relentless present began to blur.

Being half-machine had its advantages. To pass the unending, agonizing time, Vox entered a self-induced "memory lane" state, forcing his core processor to replay selective memories of his choosing, stitching them into a seamless, comforting loop. He saw the bar as it once was: polished wood, the low glow of electric signs, and lively chatter.

He remembered the occasions when Alastor would show up uninvited, taking a seat at this very counter, looking over to Vox, giving him a knowing smirk. The other knew he was in the bar. Back then, he didn't know how he did it. Now, it was quite obvious.

He replayed the sound of Alastor's radio static-laced chuckle, recalling their energetic arguments that always skirted the line of something more. It didn't matter if it was friendly or argumentative. It was fulfilling, expansive. It nurtured his mind and ambition to talk to Alastor. Vox chased the fleeting feeling of being truly seen and engaged, an experience no one, not even Val or Vel, could replicate. Alastor's attention had been a vibrant, dangerous drug, and Vox missed the addiction.

He lost track of how many times he rewound the memory of Alastor laughing at one of his terrible TV puns. He lost track of time. The silence outside was complete; no texts, no calls, no news, no ratings—just the sweet, mind-numbing oblivion of the memory loop and the liquor.

He had no concept of time in his own memories. The only indicator he had truly lost a big chunk was his stomach. It hurt so bad, pulling him out of his thoughts. Fuck, he never felt this hungry before.

He wobbled, trying to stand. He crashed into the door opening as he clumsily raided the backroom kitchen. Surprisingly, there was still canned food there. He held it in his hands, looking at it. Shit looked like dog food, if not for the obnoxious label of "Mystery Meatballs" or some shit. The text was kind of blurry. He opened it anyway. It sure smelled like a mystery allright-. Yet, not even bothering to heat it up, Vox shoved the paste into his face, sating his hunger. He didn't care to clean up the couple of cans he had brutally opened and devouerd as he went back to the bar.

He went straight back to playing the loops of his choosing. This time, Alastor was bound to the chair, defeated, the scenario where Vox had it all. But Alastor’s dismissive nature and cold lines were bitter in his mind. The smile it held was one of knowing, knowing Vox would screw up. So he just opted for the past instead.

He reached for another bottle, then another, finishing it straight from the neck. Everything was starting to become a little blurry. His motor response was slowly failing him. Still, he managed to fill a cup foo the heck of it, spilling most of it. Only to take a zip straight from the bottle anyway. Who needed manners anyway? 

The air tasted more staticky than usual. But who the fuck cared? A creak from behind made Vox’s inner programs send an alert onto his screen, but Vox quickly swiped it away before he could even care to see what it was. His screen was not reliable in this state.

He had stopped replaying the memories. His entire screen and internal processors were heating up. His poor fans working hard to cool him down.

“My, what a distasteful display,” the voice commented, coming from his immediate side. “Not to mention the lack of manners, not even a greeting!?”

Vox didn't move. He felt the sudden chill that crawled up his spine. Wow. That sounded so close to the real thing. But Vox knew, this wasn't real. It couldn't be. His visual display flickered, displaying a small [SIGNAL INTERRUPTED] warning.

Shit, he hoped he didn't fry any components. It would be a pain in the fucking ass to get ahold of it right now. Fuck, he is too drunk for this shit.

In his periphery, Vox registered a blur of black movement as a stool scraped across the floor, followed by the sound of glass being roughly shifted. The phantom, hallucination, whatever! was making itself comfortable.

“Tell me, Vox, why are you not at that ugly tower you call home, hmm? Don’t tell me your precious minions locked you out?” The sound of liquid pouring, then the familiar clink of ice in a glass.

Vox simply stared ahead. He refused to give this cruel mental projection the satisfaction of a response.

“What? Nothing to say?” Alastor pressed. “I must say, Vox, it has been quite some time since your glorious fiasco. How does it feel to have had it all? For, hmm, about ten minutes, before fucking everything up.”

The words were a direct hit. His internal processing had been more forefront as multiple brain functions had seemed to shut down to save his memory card. The display of [CORE PAIN] flashed in his mind. He couldn't let the illusion know how accurate his subconscious grief had become.

He finally turned his head, the motion slow and grinding. Now he saw the phantom: sitting right next to him, the usual sickeningly wide grin stretched across his face.

“Oh, don’t tell me you went mute. Hmm, actually, maybe that is an improvement. Your voice was always quite irritating.”

Vox returned his gaze to his drink. He wasn't giving the illusion anything. He can't torment himself like this. But the shadow, the glitch, it kept talking.

“Since I am quite generous, I decided to pay you a little visit. I came to see your pitiful display for myself, but this,” Alastor’s voice shifted, “this is not entertaining, Vox. Where is the showmanship? If you are going to lose—and you do that a lot, huh—how about you finally learn how to lose in style?”

Losing in style? You were the ultimate loss, weren't you? The best thing I ever had and the worst. The reason I had to build this stupid, cold future, just to prove I was better. Yet you never cared—I chased you for so long. I lied to myself, you were all I thought about. How cruel.

“It seems you have been drinking too much to appreciate my gracious visit,” Alastor said. Then, a quick, satisfied gulp. The phantom is drinking.

Vox heard himself speak then, just to test the illusion. Maybe he can scare it away—but does he even want that? It hit him when he heard how thick and slurred his voice was. “Alastor?”

Vox tried to speak more, seeing as the shadow didn't disappear. “You, you—found me?” Yes, that's good. Play into whatever this shit is. Things were awfully blurry in his head. He was losing his mind, great. Just great.

“Please, it was ridiculously easy. Honestly, did you even try to hide?”

Hide?

“No, I didn't try to hide, you—fuck.” Vox saw the glass the shadow had left on the counter. "Where is my bottle? Oh, here it is—” He glitched as he tried his best to focus, grabbing the bottle next to him. Screen still giving him alerts: [DETECTION MOVEMENT] [DANGER: HIGH]. “I must say, this one is one of my, uh, my better hallucinations.”

“I’m not a hallucination, you absolute buffoon.”

“Funny, that’s what a hallucination would say, hmm.” Vox managed to hold the bottle as steady as his body would let him.

Then, he saw it: a streak of jagged black enter the corner of his peripheral vision, snatching the bottle from his grasp. The sight of the shadow-stuff made his screen briefly fuzz with interference. He tracked the movement too late; he only saw the tail end of the tentacle retracting before the sharp clang of glass behind the bar.

Vox stared at his empty hand. The sting of loss was immediate.

[INTERNAL FANS ACTIVATED, SETTING HIGH]

“Hmm. No way, you can’t be real.”

“I know you are not real, because Alastor would never try and find me. He would not start a chat with me for the sake of conversing. Shit. He would probably, probably, just laugh in my face, and—fuck, where is my bottle?” Vox stared at his hand again, as the bottle had slipped out by his own accord. Shit, was he talking out loud? Or was this in his head?

A shadow stretched, and the faint scraping of wood indicated the figure was standing. “I don't like repeating myself, and you know this, Vox. This was a waste of time. Adieu.”

[MOVEMENT DETECTED]

Alastor may leave him in real life, but if this is his drunk state, he won't let it go. He can't. Not in his mind too.

“Naaaah,” Vox drew out, his voice glitching slightly. He finally managed to turn his head, focusing on something just to Alastor's side instead of on him. “You won’t leave.” Vox forced his heavy screen to turn again, locking eyes on the figure. “I conjured you up. I’ll make you stay.” Another violent glitch made his screen flicker.

“Well, do you imagine me insulting and humiliating you willingly? That takes away all the fun for me, you know.”

Vox felt it. A smile creeping up on him. This shadow spoke normally. Just enough sass and cruelty to make it believable, yet it reminded him of the old Alastor he knew. His heart ached.

Vox was still staring past him; his visual processor must be screwed up. He tried to blink, refocusing. Finally, Vox managed to meet the figure's gaze, the smile on his face widening when he could more clearly see the other. “It’s nice. Nice to see you again.”

This felt more real than his old memories. This vision he had created looked like the Alastor he saw not too long ago. He simply stared.

“F-fuck, it’s not fair! How are you so—cool—so sexy—I mean, fuck! Your stupid smile—” Vox slurred, giving a wobbly grin. “Actually, shit. You know what? I’m glad I’m getting to see you. I just wish my head would at least make you a little more, uhm—not a fucking asshole. But anything to sell the illusion, I’m right?”

Vox laughed loudly, trying to reach out and playfully elbow the empty space where the hallucination sat. The effort, combined with the laughter, resulted in Vox’s body tipping backward with an unimpressive thud onto the floor.

Vox lay still, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Then, at the tiniest sense of sanity, he laughed again, joyfully at first, then quietly. “HAHA. Fuck, I need to stop talking to myself.”

“You were always a sentimental drunkard, Vox,” the voice commented, his tone flat. Shit, he was losing the essence of the radio effect Alastor had.

“Only for you.” Vox struggled to focus his eyes on the phantom but gave up quickly. “I—I missed you. I missed us. Back before things went to shit.” Vox gritted his teeth. His head was spinning now. He didn't think; he just let the words spill out. Fuck consequences. Shame. He needed this.

“No one ever made me feel the way you did, Al. I still have no idea why. I never understood why you never considered us friends. We shared everything: talks, walks. You even let me have a few of your kills. You helped me grow my power! And we—we used to dance! You told me I was entertaining.” Vox made no effort to rise from the damp floor, which was probably from old alcohol, shit stains, and who knows what.

His voice mumbled low toward the end. The silence was immediately filled by his own head.

“I guess you are quite right, Vox. You used to be entertaining. As in the past tense.”

“Miss you being in that f-fucking chair. You looked so good—UGH. Haha, did you know,” a pause, “the day I asked you to join forces, I think about it all the time. I thought about why you would be so cruel. Your weird obsession with doing things yourself. You jab at me for needing others, when—when, uh…”

“I didn’t n-need you!” Vox felt his heart ache. He never said this out loud before. He felt his chest tremble slightly. As Vox tried to move, he felt his body unresponsive to his commands, then gave up instantly.

“I didn't need your pow-er, you red fuck. I just—I just wanted you around. F-fuck, I was—I w-was in love with you!” A violent, system-wide glitch rattled him, like the words physically wanted to harm him.

“Goodbye then, Vox. It was certainly not a pleasure.”

The voice was leaving. Vox had reached the self-destructive precipice; he couldn't even control his own cruel hallucination. Was he truly this broken? The illusion was supposed to soothe his pain—a private fantasy where he was in control. And he can't even do that.

“Well—fuck you th-then!” Vox lashed out at the phantom, desperately trying to reclaim the last word in his mind. But his fury was thin, and his attempt at defiance was crushed by his own sorrow. A single tear escaped the corner of his screen, dragging a wet, tragic streak across the pixel display. “I c-can be entertaining! I am entertaining! But you won't give me a chance, you cruel piece of shit, you have no heart—I hate you so much.”

He gained no victory. The voice was not silenced; it answered, cool and dismissive, losing all the radio effect he associated Alastor with. His illusion is breaking.

“Maybe if you weren't quite so drunk, I’d consider tormenting you. But it seems as long as you are like this, no one wants you.”

Vox had nothing left to say. He was too weary, too profoundly hurt. Any further defiance would only invite sharper misery. The realization of his loneliness was absolute.

The static that had lingered shrieked, then faded. The heavy shadow that had consumed his vision dissolved, leaving the air thin and cold. The presence was gone. Alastor got the last laugh, again.

...

Vox remained sprawled on the grimy floor, staring blankly at the ceiling. The tear slipped from the corner of his monitor, dripping onto the alcohol-slick wood. What was it that Alastor always jabbed him with? Oh yeah.

Pathetic.

He couldn't control his business partners, couldn't manipulate public opinion, couldn't even summon his own powers. And now, he couldn't control his own mind. Perhaps this truly was the Hell he had managed to evade for decades. A suffocating feeling of being utterly useless and unwanted.

He didn't bother to move. He allowed his systems to collapse, pulling back from the searing surface of the present. He forced his core processor into full recovery mode, shutting down his sensory input. He let go, surrendering to the void of unconsciousness.