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Vox wakes up screaming.
Not that he can hear himself, no. But he feels the weight on him, the pressure of something on his head— the urge to look up and see whats on him is halted by the onslaught of shock and then pain like he’s never experienced before. His insides are melting, sizzling, charring and he imagines his face, utterly disfigured after the impact-
The impact which should have killed him— please, let it have killed him— he doesn’t want to see the damage it surely brought-
His screams echo out into the blood red sky above him, and that— the absurdity of it —is the excuse he uses to force himself to shut up.
He’s laying down, so he pushes himself onto his elbows before pausing. Fuck, he was shivering. He’s so goddamn cold. He feels weak, breathless, overwhelmed, and all he can do is let his head lean back to stare above.
He doesn’t want to think about it-
There’s something up in the sky, maybe, if he squints. A tiny speck, but even from wherever he is, he can almost feel the light which shines from it. A star so bright it almost forces him to turn away. But fuck that, he thinks— and he keeps staring anyway. Let it blind him. There’s a stirring of familiar ambition in his gut, and he feels like a shark who desires to feast upon the freshly spilt blood it can smell.
He should be up there, the shark tells him. He should.
Yet, he is not.
Instead, instead, he drags his gaze away with both unwillingness and an exhaustion that seeps into his every bone. He shivers again, and with creeping dread he realises that he doesn’t feel alone.
Gaze rapidly sweeping his surroundings, he forces himself to his feet. He sways severely as dozens of tiny zaps course through his body and straight to his head. He reaches a shaky hand up and-
Shit, claws. He has claws now, isn’t that something?
Distracted with examining his newfound features, he brings the tips of his fingers right up to his face, an inch away from digging into flesh and drawing blood. Spurred by impulse, he ventures to tap against his cheek, and startles at the hard surface he feels instead— the sharp, hollowed sound that follows.
He freezes, “What the fuck-”
Desperately, both hands rise to shakingly map out his head, or- or whatever the fuck he has now because what he slowly works out is that no, no, he doesn’t have a head at all. At least, not a normal one. His clawed hands grasp uselessly against smooth plastic where his hair should be. They run uninterrupted down his face— where his face should be, where his eyes should be.
He was-
There was no way-
Panic crashes into him like a wave, and furiously he struggles to get it off. Eyes shut to haphazardly ground himself, he grips the sides of the- of the box, and yanks.
He holds back another scream. He probably shouldn’t have done that. Sparks dance across his vision, warning him, but he refuses to listen. All he can think of is the pain he felt back then— when the television had fallen on him, the shocks that racked his body, and the humiliation of being so close to achieving his dream just to have it crash down on him.
His body writhes and twitches with his futile endeavour. He has to focus to keep himself upright; one wrong step and he’ll be flailing on the ground. His sharp claws carve small holes in the sides of his head, and he fruitlessly tries to avoid thinking about the wires he can just barely graze inside.
He’s not sure how long he’s there for, tugging and twisting, until he’s far more tired than he had thought possible.
His hands slowly, unwillingly let go of his head, and fall down to clench at his sides.
He stands still. Processing.
This is him, now.
A television? Well, fuck him, apparently. What a joke.
He feels a hysterical laugh bubbling deep inside him. It rises slowly as his thoughts begin looping. Replaying. Every thought he has makes the incredulity that much stronger, carving way for a sickly feeling sifting around in his gut.
But even then, dazed as he is, he manages to catch movement in his periphery.
His gaze lands on a shadow, and he stands limp for a couple of seconds, uncertain.
When nothing moves after a near minute, the waves within him settle, and he lets out a sigh. How stupid.
But then. Fuck, something definitely moved, he saw it!
And as though the shadows themselves had gained sentience, they twist and slither their way across the ground— an uncanny serpentine dance. He cannot— does not —look away.
The darkness of the shadows bleed into the surrounding area, and Vox scrambles to go after them. He has no idea what they are, but c’mon, the worst thing they can do is kill him again, right? (Kill him, please, before he has time to adjust to this new form.)
They lead him along a lone path, winding and curved with no visible end. His feet crunch the reddish dirt beneath him, and he has to occasionally maneuvour around a gaping hole or an odd metal stake sticking out of the ground.
Soon, the shadows recede. It’s a slow, subtle thing, he almost doesn’t realise they had moved at all. But they leave, and he is alone. Just him and the big ass gate they’d lead him to.
The first thing he notices about the gate is the sheer amount of graffiti painted over it, and, in smaller amounts, a dark, viscous substance he recognises to be blood.
The second thing he notices is the large, glowing lettering above it which reads ‘Welcome to Hell!’. It looks like it’s meant to be friendly and inviting, but the effect is ruined by pretty much everything about it.
It surprisingly doesn’t take Vox long to process; he’s in Hell. Hell! And, you know what? It makes perfect sense! He probably should’ve even guessed it beforehand— where else would he be after death? Reincarnated? Fuck no. He would rather be stuck in a hellhole of his own making than start fresh as some chancy fish out of water.
But it also means that he’d died utterly humiliated.
He had been at the pinnacle of his career— his life —and he’d fucking lost the game because he’d been standing in the wrong place and the wrong time. Because his employees couldn’t do their damn jobs. Because no one could look away from him for one fucking second to notice something was wrong— ha!
So tauntingly, frustratingly close.
He eyes the sign again, considering.
If he was anyone else, he might tremble where he stands. He might feel paralysing, all-encompassing terror in discovering that yes, your actions do have consequences. He might feel guilt for those he’d killed, or dread in seeing what Hell has in store for him. If he was anyone else, he might break down and cry after everything he’d experienced up until now.
But he isn’t. No, he’s the type of person to read that stupid, cheerful-looking welcome sign and return the sentiment in full. He will turn this place into his own personal playground. He’s nothing if not a business man; why not make something out of this?
He grins. His old life has ended— it’s time for a new era.
He was so close before, this time he’ll be sure to do it right.
He is quick to learn that Hell is— weirdly enough —pretty similar to Earth.
Sure, everyone’s dead, the sky is red, yada yada. The fact remains that he can still wander around a street with built-up townhouses and lampposts, advertisements on billboards will try and brainwash him into buying their trashy products, and blaringly loud music will play from the windows of every retail store and fast food joint. The occasional brawl or murder out in the open is new, but nothing he himself wasn’t already doing in private back when he was alive.
Another thing he notes is the people themselves. Hell’s residents seem pretty keen on mimicing as close of a lifestyle as they can to what they had on Earth— or what he assumes they had on Earth. He figures they’re the ones who set this system up in the first place; a part-time job as a cashier in Hell couldn’t have possibly been God’s idea of punishement— although now that he thinks about it…
Anyway, Hell’s residents do the same shit that humans did back in the land of the living; Crime, sex, capitalism. It even seems like its more accessible to do those things down here— there are vending machines for drugs!
Hell is basically just Earth but lax, he decides, which can only work in his favour.
But there’s something else too. His exploration of Hell has shown him that everyone here looks different.
Much like himself, Vox can see that the other sinners are of varying sizes and builds. Some have claws like him, some are sharp like him. He thinks he’d swept his gaze across a shark-shaped figure at some point, but when he turned to look again he’d been mistaken, much to his disappointment.
It’s interesting, to say the least, but the more pressing matter is that none of them look like him. For some reason, he is different.
Where the other sinners have twisting horns or bright pink hair, he has machinery fused with his skin. Where others have tails that bare scars and burns, he has wires in place of veins that he can rip out and rearrange as he pleases. It does not feel natural. He doesn’t feel the machinery— it doesn’t feel like a part of him. No, instead every inch of metal, glass, and plastic is a sick reminder of his death.
Oh, how he loathes it— but it is also a constant. His grotesque form is a steady ocean of electricity that lurks just beneath the shivering cold he can’t seem to shake off. If he focuses on the energy— the sparks —he knows he is capable of something great. Something powerful.
Yes, he is different from the rest of the sinners. He is special.
He is only proved right yet again when sometime later, Hell freezes over.
Apparently, its a rare phenomenon, and the residents of Hell rejoice when it happens.
“Enjoy it while you can,” someone tells him, “Soon, the scorching heat’ll be back.”
Vox doesn’t understand, not really. Not when he’s yet to feel the ‘fiery pits of Hell’ he’d heard so much about on Earth. He is situated on the cracked pavement outside his favourite club, cold as usual while sinners dance in the reddish-pink snow around him. They’re laughing, mouths wide, and their breaths disperse like mist in the chilled air.
It’s more proof of the truth.
Because despite the weather, no matter how blistering hot or spitting cold, he will feel the same chill. The shuddering who screams to him that something is not quite right.
It’s proof when his chest moves to inhale and exhale, and nothing comes out. It’s proof when he hears the sound of a breath leave him, but sees no mist to pair with it.
He hadn’t thought about it before, and even now he tries not to— but his mind floods with a thousand ifs anyway. If his lungs try to function, only to be cut off by his artificial bodyparts. If the breath gets trapped amongst the wires and hardware. If his lungs don’t have purpose and his chest rises and falls in mere mimicry. An imitation he performs out of habit. Has- has he been doing that this whole time?
He stares out into the snow as the sinners slowly dwindle in numbers. The hours pass and the snow melts and then vaporizes, yet his body retains the chill. Something flickers in the corners of his vision.
His chest keeps moving. He listens to the sound.
There is nothing real about it.
He keeps doing it anyway.
He meets someone at a nightclub. Some woman.
She’s not all that interesting, if Vox is being nice.
She approaches his chair with a face of blurred makeup, tripping over her feet with a slight drunkedness. Why she picks him, he doesn’t know— he decides he doesn’t cares, either. Still, something keeps him there. Waiting.
She says something to him, probably an attempt at flirting, but then he’s too focused on her face— on the makeup. It’s been ruined enough that he can see the blemishes underneath— a couple of grotesque scars that contrast with the rest of her appearance.
She sees him looking at her and misinterprets it for reception, then she steps closer to him with a giggle. Soon, she’s on his lap, and her arms loop loosely around his neck. He places his hands on her hips, keeping her steady.
He lets his grip loosen, and his hands glide fleetingly up and down her back. Her dress is silk beneath his fingers.
He tries for an easy-going smile, and she takes the bait. There’s nothing she won’t do for him in this moment.
She leans further into him, and he can’t help himself.
“How’d you get those scars, beautiful?” he whispers, reaching one hand up to cup her jaw. His thumb barely grazes some of the discoloured skin there.
She presses into him with fluttering eyes. She stutters out something vaguely about her childhood, where she apparently fell and got badly injured.
Maybe she’s more drunk than he’d first thought. Vox tries to make sense of her answer while she becomes distracted with the buttons of his shirt. Her fumbling hands are slow to make progress, and she grunts a noise of frustration.
Her childhood? From when she was a human? Is she fucking joking?
He tries for a gentle yet mirthful tone as he reminds her, “You’re a demon in Hell, babe.”
She grunts again and tilts her head to make eye contact with him. Even as drunk as she might be, she manages to give him an annoyed glare— it’s probably the most sober thing Vox has seen of her since she approached him.
It makes him feel as though he is missing something. He doesn’t like it.
She says something in response but he can’t decipher it— he won’t.
He’s done with her.
She goes back to unbuttoning his clothes.
This time, he helps her.
Hours later, he’s stuck in the bathroom. He’s got both hands gripping the sides of the basin, claws leaving cracks in the porcelain. There’s faint music blasting just outside, and a colourful LED light-show bleeds through the gap between the locked door and the concrete floor.
His vision swirls and dances, and slowly he dares to drag his gaze to the mirror.
It’s not his reflection that greets him, but what’s become of him.
He doesn’t recognise much. He knows what he should see, what he expects to see. He’s always so fucking tired, but there are no dark rings under his eyes to show for it. He’s always so cold, or- or something- but he’s got no blue-tinted lips or chattering teeth.
He desperately searches for a part of him that feels familiar. For the face he’d worn for the first few decades of his life. He doesn’t remember how he styled his hair, or where that small, barely noticeable scar he’d gotten as an infant was.
There are no signs of him. None at all.
Nothing to connect him to who he had once been.
To the power he had once held.
The mirror only reflects that damned television— his last moments —and he’s overwhelmed by a sudden surge of fury.
He lets out a scream as his fist smashes deep into the mirror, fracturing his reflection until he can’t see himself clearly anymore. There’s blood dripping from his hand, and it bleeds down the shards that have sunken into his skin. His chest moves rapidly and instinctively, mimicking heaved breaths.
For the first time since he’s arrived at Hell, he feels something familiar. Something that reminds him of back then. He lets himself spiral into it, diving into the feeling as he flips the faucet on. Mesmerised, he places his hand under the tap. The water mixes with the blood and sears through the cuts. He stares at the falling droplets that paint the porcelain sink.
He wonders if this is all he will ever be; a washed up remnant of his former self. Maybe all that remains of him is the humiliation he drowned in. It’s certainly what he feels like— he feels like shit.
Like a failure.
Even without the mirror, it’s all he can see.
He hates it.
It’s not something he notices straight away, but at some point after meeting Alastor, that horrible chill he constantly feels… disappears. Vanishes. Somehow. Vox can’t really remember too well— his attention has been elsewhere recently —but fuck is he glad it’s finally gone!
Instead, now there is something else. A buzzing. He thinks it’s some kind of natural interference between his demon form and Alastor’s radio staff. He isn’t sure if Alastor is aware of it or not, but if he is then he’s given no indication.
Vox isn’t going to tell him about it either. He’s slowly come to regard the buzzing as a source of comfort— which is not something he is keen to admit to anyone. But regardless, he uses it as an anchor for his thoughts and his emotions.
It’s his new constant. His ocean of static.
Getting to know Alastor helps him realise how similar the two of them are. At first its just passing observations like; hey, they like the same style of suits! Or, hey, they were both serial killers when they were alive! Big shit— Vox doesn’t really give it much more attention than that.
Still, that’s not to say that they don’t have their differences; he uncovers two!
Unlike himself, Alastor has power. He has an audience, a following— he has influence! Vox would drool at the thought of Alastor starting in Hell with fuck all and effortlessly conquering his way to the top.
The other thing was that smile.
He’s never seen Alastor without it.
Every time Vox is reminded of what he looks like, he feels like less of a person and there wasn’t anything he could do to fix it, damn it— but Alastor? Oh, that fucker wears that perpetual mask on purpose! He’s in full control— unchanging and unwavering.
Smiling is such a natural, human thing to do, and yet on Alastor it looks like anything but.
It looks uncanny.
Vox can’t help but love it. Love the idea that Alastor is just like him; that they’re both truly fucked up creatures. That Alastor is what he can hope to be, once he gets up there.
Powerful.
He can see it so clearly, like a blinking light amidst the darkness which shrouds his adrift form.
It’s way too easy to get comfortable with it all. To feel safe. Which is hilarious when he thinks about it— who feels that way in the company of someone like that?
And yet, Vox does. He can’t imagine feeling any other way.
When he and Alastor start to talk more often, when they share drinks, whatever they’re doing together— Vox grows accustomed to drowning himself in it. He can finally block out all the bad shit and focus for once. He stops feeling so damn tired. He begins to see past the failure that loops every second in his mind’s cursed eye.
For the first time since he’d entered Hell, he feels confident in his future.
He tries to drag Alastor to the nightclub, but it ends up being a fruitless endeavour when Alastor threatens to eat all of the sinners there if Vox keeps pushing. Says something about bright lights and loud music not being to his “taste”. Yes, with the stupid quotation marks and everything. Vox wishes he could make this shit up. It turns out the great Radio Demon doesn’t shy away from a joke.
Well, he assumes it was a joke.
Not that he cares too much either way.
But he gives up anyway— it would ruin some of the fun if Alastor murdered and then cannibalised everyone —and instead they end up at a quaint little bar a couple of blocks away. There’s a soft jazz tune playing from an ancient-as-fuck jukebox at the back wall, and a smallish television set up in the top corner showing some kind of lame news channel.
Vox approaches the bar, orders one rye whiskey, then moves to join Alastor at his chosen lounge area.
They’re quick to settle into their usual rhythm, and soon enough someone delivers the drink.
Alastor grabs the glass and swings it back without hesitation, downing half of its contents. He places it back down and leans back with a sigh.
Vox looks away to glance at the television and-
“Holy shit,” he gasps, “That’s-”
He looks back at Alastor, and he knows his expression in this moment probably seems ridiculous. He can’t help the half-hysterical chuckle that leaves him.
“-that’s Davey! He’s one of the assholes I killed back on Earth! We worked together!”
He points back to reporter speaking on that sorry excuse of a news station, and Alastor blinks once, then turns to follow his finger.
He scoffs and raises one clawed hand to his head, “I can’t believe he ended up down here as well! He looks almost exactly the same, sans the, uh, fishy features! And he’s back to his usual bullshit too— his news stories are as dry as ever! Holy shit!”
He’s laughing harder now, wiping non-existent tears away. He’s already picturing a reunion in the near future— Vox will frame it as a work collaboration at first but soon enough poor, poor Davey will get to relive his death a second time, and his company will be all the better off for it!
He can’t wait!
Alastor hums, “You killed your co-worker? That’s foolishly risky, Vox.”
“Not just one, but all of ‘em! That’s right, baby, and I didn’t get caught— hell, they never even questioned me!”
Vox’s back straightens up with pride at the declaration, and he’s expecting some kind of sarcastic-barely-a-compliment response, but Alastor’s smile merely widens.
“Whatever did they do earn your ire? Did they-“ Alastor pauses in thought, peering at the screen once more, “-did they humiliate you while you were on live television, perhaps?”
That’s way too close to home, “What? No! Nah. Do I look like I was humiliated by someone?”
“Not to worry, Vox, it was just an innocent question— I simply wondered what might’ve brought me to the same choice had I been in your place.”
“Oh, right,” he tugs at his collar, and tries to recover, “Nah, I killed ‘em so I could take their place, obviously. Work my way up the ladder, y’know?”
“Sure!” Alastor laughs, eyes lidded, “It’s truly something that no one around you noticed such a thing.”
Vox waves a hand, “I had a couple of rats, sure! But I just killed them as well, and eventually they learned not to go against me— so it wasn’t really a problem. Worst thing about any of it was how much of a mess it all made, sometimes the cleaning took me hours!”
“A waste, truly.”
“You’re just saying that ‘coz your thinking about some kind of cannibal bullshit, aren’t you.”
Alastor gives him a knowing grin.
“Fuck you, Al, don’t talk about my victims like they’re food. That’s gross.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
He sighs, exasperated, “Well, what about you? What, did you really just kill people to eat them?”
“And what if I did?”
“Then I’d call you a liar. I mean, you clearly aren’t part of Rosie’s little collection of flesh-eaters, you’re something else!”
Then, the glass of whiskey empties, and Vox waits for Alastor to say something. To tell him about his motives. His drive.
He wonders if they’re at all similar with his own.
No- No, he already knows they are.
He just needs Alastor to admit it.
But horribly, frustratingly, Alastor just laughs.
Maybe another time, then.
Vox can often admit that he enjoys Hell. That it’s made for him.
He thrives here, truly. He can’t imagine what Heaven might be like, and he never feels the urge to find out. He prefers it down here.
But that’s exactly that reason that makes him doubt.
He’s not one to believe in all that divine retribution bullcrap, but, well, he’s in Hell. For a reason. Right? He killed a fuck-ton of people— there’s probably gotta be a punishment for that, right?
The thought nags at him; if he likes Hell so much, why is he here? Why reward him? Why give him the power and the means to build himself anew? Why let him hope?
Things are so good for him down here. He loathes to admit it, but sometimes he wonders what the kicker is. The big-ass fishing net that’ll finally swallow him up just like the other sinners he sees— the ones who sell their souls, forced to work or slave away at the whims of someone more higher up on the food chain. Or the ones who can’t live with themselves, with sins too heavy to carry and so they exist as mere husks. They suffocate in one of Hell’s many temptations— the drugs, the gambling, the violence.
But he’s still here. Soul still his own and his sanity intact— he’s been doing even better in the recent months! Sure, things kind of sucked when he first got here, but that’s all in the past, and if that’s all Hell had in store for him? Then maybe he doesn’t need to be obsessing over these stupid thoughts so much.
Still, Vox has high expectations. He hates himself for it— feels like he’s jinxing himself or something —but he can’t stop imagining it. That one day some angel will come down from that shining ball of light in the sky and deliver his ultimate sentence. Strip him of his power, of all his efforts— he can’t lose that. The sheer thought of it has him unable to sleep at night.
He’d rather they turn the rest of him into a machine.
But he also believes, frustratingly, that it would be so fitting.
That’s why he doesn’t expect it when Alastor rejects him. Rejects them. He stupidly assumes it would take the fucking Heavens themselves to push him off the deep end, and yet all it really takes is some damn laughter.
Vox hasn’t seen him since— doesn’t know if he wants to, if he can handle it. The days get longer without him around and soon it gets harder for him to think, his mind a frigid mess. Maybe- maybe he’s just dreaming? It’s all a dream and he’ll wake up and the angels will be mocking him from above, because they’re the ones who set this up, after all— and then he can shove it so far out of his mind because everything will go back to normal-
But one thing he cannot attribute to his dreams is the memory of Alastor saying no. Vox hadn’t realised that was even an option— he still struggles to fathom it. How could he say that?
How could he?
His world seeps in red once more because Alastor was supposed to say yes, he should have understood, goddamnit. They were supposed to be the same— how the fuck could he have said all that?
Alastor’s laugh echoes through him.
Was it really so funny— the idea of him?
He’s not like other dead in hell, he knows. He can’t breathe or eat or drink. His voice can sound filtered, sometimes, often when he’s angry or over excited. And it doesn’t come from where his mouth should be, but from a speaker. It sounds off.
He knows the brightness from his upgraded flat screen is a problem— Alastor often complained about headaches after looking at him for too long. From being around him for too long.
It doesn’t feel fair. He can’t help how he’s been designed.
He’s unnatural. He doesn’t know if- sometimes he wonders if he seems real, sometimes.
Maybe Alastor is right— there are no friends in Hell. At least, not for someone like Vox.
He remembers once being curious about Alastor’s death. He had never asked before, and he can’t ask now. But there was one moment, one singular moment when Alastor had turned his head just so and the hair that covered his forehead had lifted that little bit extra and Vox could glimpse the small, scarred ‘X’ hidden beneath.
Most sinners have one— a reminder of their death. A part of them that a new body simply couldn’t remove.
He used to search his body for one just like it. At one point he’d even kept his old televisions, stuffing his arm inside and feeling around for something odd and out of place— some last vestiges of hope swimming inside him.
But now, alone in his office, he knows the truth. He sees it every day when his chest rises and falls without purpose. Every time Velvette and Valentino do each other’s makeup, and they turn to look at him and wince.
His very being is his reminder. His failure.
His divine fucking punishment.
It’s all the same.