[He stares down at the tentacle for a few seconds, debating whether he should send an electric current down that blasted thing. There's a good chance it'll find its way back to the shadow's owner and while it wouldn't guarantee a reveal of Alastor's location, it'd still feel pretty good. He lets it be for now. It could be a trap. The shadow might swallow him whole instead.
The rustle of leaves catches his attention, and the flame catches his gaze. Though he thinks for a moment it might do something... It doesn't. It's just floating there. Menacingly. He's not familiar with the concept of will o' wisps, so he doesn't know what to make of it. His approach is a slow one.
Should he reach out and touch the...? Nah. Best not to.
[ In the modern era, these stories tend to come with a convenient manual. It's all the rage to tell stories of a mysterious place that comes with a strange list of rules, and there's comprehensions write ups on how to reach the backrooms and what to find on each floor. Those stories have always existed in the form of urban legends and rituals, but having to stumble along blindly in this manner is quite unlucky.
Don't touch anything needlessly is a good rule to live by.
The tentacle retracts after Vox has passed by it, though the flame lingers in place where it is for some time more before it begins to drift off.
The pathway looks to have been abandoned long ago. It's overgrown and difficult to make out, with red weeds and grass peeking out from the ground along with the grass. There's a fallen tree blocking the path in one spot, but it's small enough to easily step over. The shadows seem to shift and grow in places, but there's nothing to be found on them.
If he continues on this path for a bit, he'll find a small patch of lovely yellow flowers on the side, and there's an nearly inaudible, incomprehensible whispering that almost seems to come from them. Some distance away from them is another flower - a white flower that has its own slight glow to it. There's an arrow dug into the ground, pointing directly to it. Not at all suspicious. ]
[Vox has seen a variety of lights like these in movies, and therein lies the problem. He only knows of fiction, which is often twisted to suit a narrative purpose or genre. Maybe the light is just pointless set dressing. Maybe it leads to a corpse. Maybe it represents a spirit. Hell if he knows. He'll walk the path anyway, reeds brushing along his legs as he pushes through the undergrowth.
... Apparently it leads to flowers. Very suspicious flowers and one suspicious arrow pointing to an even more suspicious flower.
Vox wants nothing more than to throw his head back and shout "this is fucking stupid, Alastor!" into the sky. But he can't. No matter how hard he tries, he can't overrule that mute function. It's like an invisible finger is on a button, holding it down. So he does the next best thing to convey the sentiment that's overwhelming him: he steps on the white flower, intending to crush it to a pulp beneath his heel.]
[ The flower is as delicate any other flower, easily crushed underfoot, the light glow of its petals dimming as they're split into pieces. A blood curdling wail follows the stem being crushed in turn, and all that's left behind is the filthy shreds of the once beautiful plant.
The world is quick to demand remittance for the lost life. If Vox is quick, he should be able to avoid the piercing stab of the root (or something that resembles one) that juts out of the ground. The black roots (tendrils?) that climb from the ground and snake around his body will be much harder to avoid, and those aim to drag him down and into the ground. Vox is as solid as the earth beneath him, unfortunately, and so this instead leads to him being pressed and crushed against it with such force that a normal sinner would have broken bones and crushed organs within seconds.
[Oh fuck he's made a mistake. He's made a mistake-
The root that shoots its way up from the ground is avoided well enough with an awkward stumble backwards. And there's more coming, he can see it- sense it. He tries to get away from the tendrils as they emerge, but there's far too many and they pop up from every direction he hopes to choose, blocking any escape. They slither up his ankles, crawl their way along his torso and shoot towards his arms to restrain him, even as he tries to shake the damned things off again.
And then they pull.
His knees buckle from the sudden force and he slams down onto the ground, his legs crumpling awkwardly beneath his body. Unnaturally. They're at risk of breaking, because even now that he's down into a forced kneeling position with the rest of his body pressing down on his lower legs, the pull doesn't stop. The dirt beneath him doesn't budge. His arms are still being tugged at too, and his spine curls inward as a result, shoulders pulled backwards. He cries out in pain, the sound inaudible.
In a last ditch effort not to have his body pulled into a pretzel shape, he attacks the tendrils with electricity.]
[ That's what he gets for killing innocent plants... Though maybe that was a bit too much after all.
Vox's powers have always served him well as a counter to Alastor. It's one thing to be able to cut off a piece of his tentacles, but electricity runs all the way down to the source. That proves to be the case here too. There's a squeal as a pair of them turn to ash, while the rest stop in their path. Their hold on him doesn't break, but it does loosen enough for him to right his posture. The point was to make him kneel, not to break him, and the radio demon wants him to pay attention.
If Vox happens to look up, he'll see Alastor sitting on one of the higher tree branches, red eyes and cashmere cat grin glowing in the darkness. If noticed, he'll lift one hand and wiggle his fingers in a mock wave before he rests both hands on the branch. ]
Hm. You're bad at this. I expected better.
[ He swings his legs back and forth, tilting his head back and making a show of pretending to consider something turning his eyes back down, ]
[The second those tendrils weaken, Vox is tugging at them again, pulling himself back into an upright position and continuing to struggle from there. He still can't do much more than squirm and try to get his legs out from under himself, which is something he fails at, but boy is he putting in the effort. His arms ache from all the force that goes into it.
Alastor's appearance does succeed in catching his attention, and he throws an immediate glare up at the man. He can't very well decide to stop if he can't fully understand what they're doing here beyond 'game', nor does he want to give Alastor the satisfaction of winning.
A single cable shoots out from his back and snaps up towards the radio demon, hoping to lash at him like it's a whip.]
[ Alastor is just a bit too slow to fully avoid the cable. His hands tighten their grip as it strikes him, and he only manages to avoid being knocked back by melting into the shadows. He reappears on the ground, closer to Vox now. It stings more than he cares to admit, and more than that wide smile suggests. ]
You can either find the exit, or you can try to catch me... Those are my usual conditions, but I'm feeling generous today.
[ The latter condition being added because Alastor is the quickest way to the exit. There's no other rules save those dos and don'ts that he's has decided on.
He places his hand over his heart, leaning forward. He's sure that his captive will lash out more. He can struggle all he wants, but he isn't ready to free him just yet. ]
[Got him. Even if the lash ultimately did nothing and Alastor appears before him looking like the smuggest motherfucker who ever lived, Vox takes pride in the fact that he landed a blow. And he'll keep landing blows until he either gets out of this place, one way or another, or if his body breaks to the point of immobility.
Fuck games, fuck condescending grins and fuck Alastor.
The cable returns to Vox's side, hovering in an upright position like it's a snake emerging from his body, the plug seeming to stare Alastor's way. Frustration stays on his face for a moment longer as he considers the options- or rather, decides there's only one option. That's when the grin returns to his screen and the cable lashes out a second time.]
[Anyone with common sense would know that escape from Alastor's domain is quite impossible. Vox does have that common sense, but elects to ignore it. He pulls out bigger guns. Several more cables spring from his back and instead of trying to get to Alastor, they each shoot towards the top of a nearby tree and wrap around it.
The plan is to try pulling himself up from the ground, tearing the shadow tendrils, by using the trees as leverage. The real question is what will break first; the tendrils or the trees themselves?]
[ The trees themselves bend to his whims sooner, while those bindings around him increase their grip. It's a subtle shift, just a hint of discomfort, but the radio demon has decided he'll stay in place. He hasn't quite decided why that is, but he knows it's necessary.
He reappears next to the yellow flowers. They're giggling now, a soft sound, but there's a wail as he plucks one and twirls it in his fingers. They're only happy about the death of the white flower. His head turns as one of his trees cracks and crumples and comes crashing down. ]
So, what should I do with you now?
[ He plucks one more, ears twitching in response to the sound, before he tosses the second in Vox's direction. It's too far to reach, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it?
[Oh cool, the flowers are screaming. Great. Love that.
Vox tries to ignore it as he keeps pulling himself up by the trees, even as the tendrils tighten around him, squeezing and bruising and close to tearing skin. He refuses to give up. One of the trees comes falling down with a mighty smash and without that leverage, Vox's torso bumps down a little as well, landing on his bent legs again. So much for any progress.
He tries to fling a torn, splintered remnant of the tree Alastor's way with the cable, but the radio demon's already vanished again. The wood is launched into the darkness of the swamp instead.]
Nothing can touch Alastor without him willing it. That's just the nature of this world. In the same way, he could squash Vox in an instant if he so willed it. But he plays pretend at otherwise, manifesting roughly around the back of the fallen tree. ]
What should I do...?
[ He disappears again, and the next time, he regains his forum directly in front of Vox. The shadow shift and mold themselves into a person, and when they do his head is held in the others hands. It's a gentle grip, one on each side of the TV, and he stares down at him with an undefinable look.
What? That toothy grin asks immediately. But it doesn't hold. It thins out. It shrinks. It stretches out. It's just a matter of seconds, but it takes that long for it to settle on something wide but think.
Go ahead, that smile says.
His heart races too, his breath quickening as he looks down.
Hurry, hurry, that rapid heartbeat says, those heavy breaths say.
Alastor's grip is light, his expression unreadable. He doesn't move. He's perfectly silent.
Tell me what I should do, that silence says, that stillness says, because neither of them are capable of kindness, and yet something always keeps him from acting as he should.
Illogical. Random. Nonsensical. Decades in the building.
What does it mean if a person makes themselves an easy mark?
What does it mean for a predator to let themselves be prey?
He leans in just a bit closer, because he wants to see the answer first. ]
[Vox would say he doesn't know what Alastor wants from him; he was muted precisely because he gave his opinion. But he thinks he can wager a guess. Alastor wants entertainment. Or maybe an excuse to crush Vox's head between his hands. He wants control and suffering, and to mess with Vox's mind. Make him feel small. Insignificant. That's what it's always been.
He stares Alastor down, eyes set with fury, teeth bared. The sting of the tendrils still tugging at his limbs is but a vague afterthought in the back of his mind.
Ultimately, he raises the freed-up cable towards Alastor's face to try and flick him on the forehead.]
[ Alastor's ears perk straight up, and his eyes widen in response to flick to his forehead as he jerks back, though his hands stay in place, shaking just a bit as he takes a single step back.
His face scrunches up, and the thinned out smile does in turn as he watches the other with that wariness of a person who's expectations have been defied. The tendrils around him loosen just slightly, just enough to leave them where they had been before - constrictive, but not painful.
He settles on a glare in return as his ears fold back. It's almost childish in how demanding of explanation it is, despite the other being muted, unhappy despite being the one to create this very scenario because... Well, it isn't what he created. This was not part of the deal. ]
[Vox is nothing if not a pusher of boundaries, an escalator of situations and a petty little man. He does what he wants- doubly so when the other person involved in the equation is someone he's in conflict with. Alastor seemingly being taken aback by it only vindicates him. Tells him he was right to do it, because it had an effect.
The only thing remotely close to an explanation to come from him is the toothy grin that his mouth draws itself into.]
[ He huffs, and he does pull one hand off to rub his forehead where it'd been flicked, because of course it is different when it's him. Alastor keeps his hands where they are - easily shaken off, but not until Vox wills it.
. . .
Alastor is silent for a long time. It's a comfortable silence, or at least for him. His grip doesn't slip, and in fact one thumb does rub up against the screen. It's that long silence of a person who's so used to such things. It's not unlike him either, because Alastor has always been quite capable of simply existing with another person, but it also is. It is, because there's no reason for him to.
But he is thinking. Thinking, and using one thumb to rub against Vox's screen. He can interrupt at any time if he'd like to. He can push more. Do more. Be more.
[The touch against his screen, the idle rub... In a twisted way, it feels nice. If Vox were to close his eyes, he could probably pretend the situation's different. Just another fantasy, as such scenarios have always been. It's tempting. He really shouldn't, though. He needs to keep his attention on reality. Still, he won't shake Alastor off.
In fact. He decides to do the opposite. The cable's plugged end moves over towards Alastor's hand. It's a slow motion, not at all threatening. Once there, it wraps around the man's wrist in an attempt to keep Alastor's hand in place. If Vox is going to be bound, then so should the other man. Tied together, just as they have grown over all these years.
And still, his own grin doesn't waver. He just keeps staring up at Alastor, eyes almost manic.]
[ He watches with care as the cable move toward his hand an wraps around his wrist, and his fingers twitch just slightly in response to the sensation of it wrapping around his wrist, but he makes no effort to remove it. That's at his leisure, and instead his gaze lingers on where the cord is tied around his wrist before looking back to Vox's face. Tied together is the opposite of what they should be by now.
His grip remains. Isn't it horrible that this is the only way they can give this sort of attention to one another? It really isn't all that much different than how he was tied to a chair, and Alastor tilts his head, ears curving to the same side as he does so. It would be a simple matter to crack his screen. It would be easy for Vox to shock him.
He opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is air. He tries again, with different words this time, ]
You always surround yourself with so much noise.
[ There are always screens displaying updates and lists, there's always endless communication to respond to, feedback and questions and advertisements and all sorts of other things, or so it seems to him. None of that exists for Alastor, who's remained back in an era where things moved slower. Despite being the radio, he feels at home with silence - switching his dial to off, as it were. He finds that comfortable, spacious place between channels where there's nothing. No audience. No viewers. No listeners. Perfect silence.
This isn't quite that, but his fingers continue to rub at his screen. He blinks slowly, wondering if Vox is still connected to the outside world. He never had reason to think on it. ]
When is the last time that you disconnected?
[ It's not what he wants to say, but what he can. ]
[Vox wasn't sure whether Alastor might take the opportunity to snap the cable off; just pull so hard that it breaks. But no, it's allowed to stay where it is, wrapped snuggly around the man's wrist. Nothing else happens. Neither of them attacks.
The question feels like it comes out of nowhere, and while Vox's smile only diminishes by a fraction, he blinks several times in rapid succession. The 'noise' is something that no longer registers as noise to him. It's just a part of life now, as natural to him as the currents flowing through his body. When he entered Alastor's room, everything stopped updating in real time, like a phone that's been disconnected from its usual network. But that doesn't mean the noise stopped. He has so much backed up, so much that's still operational in the background even without updates...
No sound comes from him, but his mouth moves to speak a single word. "Never". Or rather, not since he started connecting to so many different things, but that's more difficult to lip read. When he first arrived in Hell, there was very little connect to, but the more influence he gained and the more technology advanced, the more was being sent across the city on his network to pick up on.]
You should try it sometime. There's too much noise in the world these days.
[ It's not what he needs to say, but Alastor still isn't sure how to do that. It might be easier for him to give a lecture on signal processing than to find the words he needs to here. That's not normal for him, and so he tries to fill the gap in this way, with a statement that no one else can implicitly understand the meaning of.
Hell has never held the perfect silence that life did. He is the radio, and so the airwaves are his to control. He's always able to tune in on any channel, and he's cognizant of how much more congested they've become over time, but none of that registers for him anymore. He stays locked in on a dead channel, and that affords him peace most days. He finds himself listening to less, because less and less of it is of value anymore.
He continues to rub Vox's screen with his thumb. That cable is wrapped around his wrist, thin and easily torn, but he allows it for the moment. ]
It's quite peaceful. It allows you to focus on what really matters.
[Vox blinks a few more times, unsure whether there's a deeper meaning to what Alastor's saying to him. Whether disconnecting is some kind of allegory. Foreshadowing to that temporary death. Or maybe Alastor will break his antenna, run his claws along some of the hardware in Vox's head and that will lead to disconnection too.
He breaks eye contact, his gaze shooting towards the arm that's right beside his screen. If Alastor were to apply enough pressure with his thumb at just the wrong place, it could crack the surface. It'd be a pain in the ass, not easily fixed while he's stuck here in this stupid fake swamp.
[ It is, and it isn't. It's a way of killing time. It's a way of avoiding saying what he really wants to. It's a way to keep from having to acknowledge things at all.
He's silent for a short while as he sorts through his internal conflict. It's a short while when he just watches the man before him. He had made the mistake of believing to be an equal, and over the course of just a few years grown accustomed to his company in a way he hadn't with anyone before and hasn't since, and that mistake had led to seventy years of strife that ended with the both of them at death's door. There was no reason it should have felt like a betrayal, but it did. It did, and there's no good reason for him to risk a third.
Eventually, his ears lie flat back, and he speaks again, ]
I could kill you right now, you know. In fact, I don't think there would be any greater pleasure than snuffing the life out of you. I've had seventy years to think about how I'd do it, so I'm well prepared.
[ He's said that already, but there's a slightly different inflection to the words. They're calmer, more thoughtful, almost distracted. His touch remains gentle, at odds with the cruel words. But he doesn't need to say them, because threats from him are nothing new, and it always ends with nothing happening. It should have, though, and it should now.
Alastor isn't done, but he does pause there. He needs to make sure he can maintain his composure for the rest. ]
[Vox isn't too offended by that remark. If anything, he's flattered in a roundabout way. If Alastor spent seventy years thinking about how to do it, it means he expended seventy years' worth of energy thinking about Vox. Bad publicity is still publicity. Besides, Vox did the same thing; fantasizing over and over about torturing and killing Alastor. Imagining the blood, the torn limbs, and specifically the despairing apologies that might flow. Obviously, that last one was limited to his imagination, and he knew if the day ever came, the scenario would be without any cries for forgiveness. That's fine. The blood and gore would still satisfy. He got so close, too. He almost found that blissful resolution, only to have it torn away from him.
He wonders how far Alastor will actually get with his own murder fantasy.
The cable, still around the radio demon's wrist, begins to move. Just a slight little motion, back and forth, like it's stroking the bare skin beneath Alastor's sleeve. A quick crackle of electricity zips between the elements of Vox's antenna, limited solely to that area without spreading down the rest of his screen. It'd be so easy to send a current down Alastor's hand, but he doesn't resort to that. He just waits.]
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The rustle of leaves catches his attention, and the flame catches his gaze. Though he thinks for a moment it might do something... It doesn't. It's just floating there. Menacingly. He's not familiar with the concept of will o' wisps, so he doesn't know what to make of it. His approach is a slow one.
Should he reach out and touch the...? Nah. Best not to.
Down the path he goes.]
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Don't touch anything needlessly is a good rule to live by.
The tentacle retracts after Vox has passed by it, though the flame lingers in place where it is for some time more before it begins to drift off.
The pathway looks to have been abandoned long ago. It's overgrown and difficult to make out, with red weeds and grass peeking out from the ground along with the grass. There's a fallen tree blocking the path in one spot, but it's small enough to easily step over. The shadows seem to shift and grow in places, but there's nothing to be found on them.
If he continues on this path for a bit, he'll find a small patch of lovely yellow flowers on the side, and there's an nearly inaudible, incomprehensible whispering that almost seems to come from them. Some distance away from them is another flower - a white flower that has its own slight glow to it. There's an arrow dug into the ground, pointing directly to it. Not at all suspicious. ]
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... Apparently it leads to flowers. Very suspicious flowers and one suspicious arrow pointing to an even more suspicious flower.
Vox wants nothing more than to throw his head back and shout "this is fucking stupid, Alastor!" into the sky. But he can't. No matter how hard he tries, he can't overrule that mute function. It's like an invisible finger is on a button, holding it down. So he does the next best thing to convey the sentiment that's overwhelming him: he steps on the white flower, intending to crush it to a pulp beneath his heel.]
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The world is quick to demand remittance for the lost life. If Vox is quick, he should be able to avoid the piercing stab of the root (or something that resembles one) that juts out of the ground. The black roots (tendrils?) that climb from the ground and snake around his body will be much harder to avoid, and those aim to drag him down and into the ground. Vox is as solid as the earth beneath him, unfortunately, and so this instead leads to him being pressed and crushed against it with such force that a normal sinner would have broken bones and crushed organs within seconds.
Good luck! ]
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The root that shoots its way up from the ground is avoided well enough with an awkward stumble backwards. And there's more coming, he can see it- sense it. He tries to get away from the tendrils as they emerge, but there's far too many and they pop up from every direction he hopes to choose, blocking any escape. They slither up his ankles, crawl their way along his torso and shoot towards his arms to restrain him, even as he tries to shake the damned things off again.
And then they pull.
His knees buckle from the sudden force and he slams down onto the ground, his legs crumpling awkwardly beneath his body. Unnaturally. They're at risk of breaking, because even now that he's down into a forced kneeling position with the rest of his body pressing down on his lower legs, the pull doesn't stop. The dirt beneath him doesn't budge. His arms are still being tugged at too, and his spine curls inward as a result, shoulders pulled backwards. He cries out in pain, the sound inaudible.
In a last ditch effort not to have his body pulled into a pretzel shape, he attacks the tendrils with electricity.]
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Vox's powers have always served him well as a counter to Alastor. It's one thing to be able to cut off a piece of his tentacles, but electricity runs all the way down to the source. That proves to be the case here too. There's a squeal as a pair of them turn to ash, while the rest stop in their path. Their hold on him doesn't break, but it does loosen enough for him to right his posture. The point was to make him kneel, not to break him, and the radio demon wants him to pay attention.
If Vox happens to look up, he'll see Alastor sitting on one of the higher tree branches, red eyes and cashmere cat grin glowing in the darkness. If noticed, he'll lift one hand and wiggle his fingers in a mock wave before he rests both hands on the branch. ]
Hm. You're bad at this. I expected better.
[ He swings his legs back and forth, tilting his head back and making a show of pretending to consider something turning his eyes back down, ]
Do you want to stop?
[ Give up? ]
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Alastor's appearance does succeed in catching his attention, and he throws an immediate glare up at the man. He can't very well decide to stop if he can't fully understand what they're doing here beyond 'game', nor does he want to give Alastor the satisfaction of winning.
A single cable shoots out from his back and snaps up towards the radio demon, hoping to lash at him like it's a whip.]
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You can either find the exit, or you can try to catch me... Those are my usual conditions, but I'm feeling generous today.
[ The latter condition being added because Alastor is the quickest way to the exit. There's no other rules save those dos and don'ts that he's has decided on.
He places his hand over his heart, leaning forward. He's sure that his captive will lash out more. He can struggle all he wants, but he isn't ready to free him just yet. ]
So, what will it be? Do you want to quit?
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Fuck games, fuck condescending grins and fuck Alastor.
The cable returns to Vox's side, hovering in an upright position like it's a snake emerging from his body, the plug seeming to stare Alastor's way. Frustration stays on his face for a moment longer as he considers the options- or rather, decides there's only one option. That's when the grin returns to his screen and the cable lashes out a second time.]
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Of course, I've already caught you, so I've already won.
[ And he disappears again. Vox isn't as agile as Alastor is, but he's still quite quick, and so best not to linger.
One of his bindings breaks, and two more replace it. ]
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The plan is to try pulling himself up from the ground, tearing the shadow tendrils, by using the trees as leverage. The real question is what will break first; the tendrils or the trees themselves?]
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He reappears next to the yellow flowers. They're giggling now, a soft sound, but there's a wail as he plucks one and twirls it in his fingers. They're only happy about the death of the white flower. His head turns as one of his trees cracks and crumples and comes crashing down. ]
So, what should I do with you now?
[ He plucks one more, ears twitching in response to the sound, before he tosses the second in Vox's direction. It's too far to reach, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it?
He disappears again. ]
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Vox tries to ignore it as he keeps pulling himself up by the trees, even as the tendrils tighten around him, squeezing and bruising and close to tearing skin. He refuses to give up. One of the trees comes falling down with a mighty smash and without that leverage, Vox's torso bumps down a little as well, landing on his bent legs again. So much for any progress.
He tries to fling a torn, splintered remnant of the tree Alastor's way with the cable, but the radio demon's already vanished again. The wood is launched into the darkness of the swamp instead.]
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Nothing can touch Alastor without him willing it. That's just the nature of this world. In the same way, he could squash Vox in an instant if he so willed it. But he plays pretend at otherwise, manifesting roughly around the back of the fallen tree. ]
What should I do...?
[ He disappears again, and the next time, he regains his forum directly in front of Vox. The shadow shift and mold themselves into a person, and when they do his head is held in the others hands. It's a gentle grip, one on each side of the TV, and he stares down at him with an undefinable look.
What? That toothy grin asks immediately. But it doesn't hold. It thins out. It shrinks. It stretches out. It's just a matter of seconds, but it takes that long for it to settle on something wide but think.
Go ahead, that smile says.
His heart races too, his breath quickening as he looks down.
Hurry, hurry, that rapid heartbeat says, those heavy breaths say.
Alastor's grip is light, his expression unreadable. He doesn't move. He's perfectly silent.
Tell me what I should do, that silence says, that stillness says, because neither of them are capable of kindness, and yet something always keeps him from acting as he should.
Illogical. Random. Nonsensical. Decades in the building.
What does it mean if a person makes themselves an easy mark?
What does it mean for a predator to let themselves be prey?
He leans in just a bit closer, because he wants to see the answer first. ]
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He stares Alastor down, eyes set with fury, teeth bared. The sting of the tendrils still tugging at his limbs is but a vague afterthought in the back of his mind.
Ultimately, he raises the freed-up cable towards Alastor's face to try and flick him on the forehead.]
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His face scrunches up, and the thinned out smile does in turn as he watches the other with that wariness of a person who's expectations have been defied. The tendrils around him loosen just slightly, just enough to leave them where they had been before - constrictive, but not painful.
He settles on a glare in return as his ears fold back. It's almost childish in how demanding of explanation it is, despite the other being muted, unhappy despite being the one to create this very scenario because... Well, it isn't what he created. This was not part of the deal. ]
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The only thing remotely close to an explanation to come from him is the toothy grin that his mouth draws itself into.]
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. . .
Alastor is silent for a long time. It's a comfortable silence, or at least for him. His grip doesn't slip, and in fact one thumb does rub up against the screen. It's that long silence of a person who's so used to such things. It's not unlike him either, because Alastor has always been quite capable of simply existing with another person, but it also is. It is, because there's no reason for him to.
But he is thinking. Thinking, and using one thumb to rub against Vox's screen. He can interrupt at any time if he'd like to. He can push more. Do more. Be more.
Last chance. ]
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In fact. He decides to do the opposite. The cable's plugged end moves over towards Alastor's hand. It's a slow motion, not at all threatening. Once there, it wraps around the man's wrist in an attempt to keep Alastor's hand in place. If Vox is going to be bound, then so should the other man. Tied together, just as they have grown over all these years.
And still, his own grin doesn't waver. He just keeps staring up at Alastor, eyes almost manic.]
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His grip remains. Isn't it horrible that this is the only way they can give this sort of attention to one another? It really isn't all that much different than how he was tied to a chair, and Alastor tilts his head, ears curving to the same side as he does so. It would be a simple matter to crack his screen. It would be easy for Vox to shock him.
He opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is air. He tries again, with different words this time, ]
You always surround yourself with so much noise.
[ There are always screens displaying updates and lists, there's always endless communication to respond to, feedback and questions and advertisements and all sorts of other things, or so it seems to him. None of that exists for Alastor, who's remained back in an era where things moved slower. Despite being the radio, he feels at home with silence - switching his dial to off, as it were. He finds that comfortable, spacious place between channels where there's nothing. No audience. No viewers. No listeners. Perfect silence.
This isn't quite that, but his fingers continue to rub at his screen. He blinks slowly, wondering if Vox is still connected to the outside world. He never had reason to think on it. ]
When is the last time that you disconnected?
[ It's not what he wants to say, but what he can. ]
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The question feels like it comes out of nowhere, and while Vox's smile only diminishes by a fraction, he blinks several times in rapid succession. The 'noise' is something that no longer registers as noise to him. It's just a part of life now, as natural to him as the currents flowing through his body. When he entered Alastor's room, everything stopped updating in real time, like a phone that's been disconnected from its usual network. But that doesn't mean the noise stopped. He has so much backed up, so much that's still operational in the background even without updates...
No sound comes from him, but his mouth moves to speak a single word. "Never". Or rather, not since he started connecting to so many different things, but that's more difficult to lip read. When he first arrived in Hell, there was very little connect to, but the more influence he gained and the more technology advanced, the more was being sent across the city on his network to pick up on.]
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[ It's not what he needs to say, but Alastor still isn't sure how to do that. It might be easier for him to give a lecture on signal processing than to find the words he needs to here. That's not normal for him, and so he tries to fill the gap in this way, with a statement that no one else can implicitly understand the meaning of.
Hell has never held the perfect silence that life did. He is the radio, and so the airwaves are his to control. He's always able to tune in on any channel, and he's cognizant of how much more congested they've become over time, but none of that registers for him anymore. He stays locked in on a dead channel, and that affords him peace most days. He finds himself listening to less, because less and less of it is of value anymore.
He continues to rub Vox's screen with his thumb. That cable is wrapped around his wrist, thin and easily torn, but he allows it for the moment. ]
It's quite peaceful. It allows you to focus on what really matters.
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He breaks eye contact, his gaze shooting towards the arm that's right beside his screen. If Alastor were to apply enough pressure with his thumb at just the wrong place, it could crack the surface. It'd be a pain in the ass, not easily fixed while he's stuck here in this stupid fake swamp.
Ultimately, one shoulder raises in half a shrug.]
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He's silent for a short while as he sorts through his internal conflict. It's a short while when he just watches the man before him. He had made the mistake of believing to be an equal, and over the course of just a few years grown accustomed to his company in a way he hadn't with anyone before and hasn't since, and that mistake had led to seventy years of strife that ended with the both of them at death's door. There was no reason it should have felt like a betrayal, but it did. It did, and there's no good reason for him to risk a third.
Eventually, his ears lie flat back, and he speaks again, ]
I could kill you right now, you know. In fact, I don't think there would be any greater pleasure than snuffing the life out of you. I've had seventy years to think about how I'd do it, so I'm well prepared.
[ He's said that already, but there's a slightly different inflection to the words. They're calmer, more thoughtful, almost distracted. His touch remains gentle, at odds with the cruel words. But he doesn't need to say them, because threats from him are nothing new, and it always ends with nothing happening. It should have, though, and it should now.
Alastor isn't done, but he does pause there. He needs to make sure he can maintain his composure for the rest. ]
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He wonders how far Alastor will actually get with his own murder fantasy.
The cable, still around the radio demon's wrist, begins to move. Just a slight little motion, back and forth, like it's stroking the bare skin beneath Alastor's sleeve. A quick crackle of electricity zips between the elements of Vox's antenna, limited solely to that area without spreading down the rest of his screen. It'd be so easy to send a current down Alastor's hand, but he doesn't resort to that. He just waits.]
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"biting you" but it's literal now
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