[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.]
[ His fingers twitch in response to the unexpected movement, but his eyes remain locked with Vox's own, and he allows it for now. Unable to decide if it's a threat or something else entirely, he settles for knowing that simple curiosity will keep them both in place until he's finished.
He continues, at last getting to his point, ]
There's no need to ask if I want to kill you, and if it's not if I could kill you - at this point, I'd say it's not even if I should. We both already know that I can and I do.
[ He should. He needs to, because he won't know peace until he does now. The thought will always be there, looming in his mind. He'll live with a noose tightening around his neck. ]
So then, the question is: Why haven't I killed you yet?
[ His fingers twitch once more, and there's something else hidden in those words. Why, in seventy years? It wasn't as though he'd gone soft on the man. In fact, he'd tapped into more and more of his toolkit over the years as things stopped working (and what a surprise it had been when the man had figured a way to detect and yank him out of the shadows he hid in.) But something always got in the way. He always wanted to make him suffer more, he wanted to toy with him more, and he'd let him slink off to lick his wounds. It was that, and it was something else, something that always prevented him from going as far as he could. And it was fine; it was simple, something that required neither acknowledgment nor thought.
It does now, but he isn't acting on it.
It's the question he'd brought Vox here to try to find an answer to, he realizes. If she should, how he would - those things were just a way of getting here.
Without letting go of Vox's face, he sinks down to one knee, bringing himself down to eye level with the man. No matter how long he stares, there's no answer to be found hidden on that screen. There's nothing in that visage that can tell him. ]
What do you think? Tell me. Why is it that even after all these years, I still haven't killed you?
[ That facade of calm is still there, but chips start to appear in it as he goes on. There's the slightest tremor of the mouth, and a quiver of the eyelids, and as he goes the pressure of his grip grows stronger. He tightens it just a bit more to run off any risk of his hands shaking. And the words themselves come to be off - collected at first, but an undertones of irritation and bitterness start to work their way in as he goes on, and by the end something else still has found its way in. It's some foreign emotion works its way in, something undefinable and unrecognizable for how little its shown itself.
Why is this man even alive? No one would care if he died.
His grip loosens once more as he watches for an answer that he knows won't come. Even if Vox could speak, Alastor doubts he would have an answer to give. ]
[Something is off. It's so fucking off, because Alastor has been making vague threats ever since Vox first walked into this room, but nothing's happened beyond some mind games and restraining. This whole thing could've ended quite fast, because even with Vox's own strength and abilities, Alastor's got the literal home advantage. With that hand on his chest earlier, the radio demon could've reached right in and torn out Vox's beating heart.
He waits and he listens and he watches. It isn't just the situation that's off, it's Alastor himself. There's the little details in his posture and his facial expression. It's as close to wiping the smile off his face as Vox could get, probably, and he hadn't even intended to do it.
Why indeed? It's another one of those opportunities to grab hold of. The type of opening that Vox likes to jam a crowbar into, to pry and break and overall cause even more damage. Sure enough, there's quite a few spiteful words that come to his mind. 'Coward' or 'weak', or 'sentiment'. But then it hits him. That one word that's been there for seventy years already, itching and burning and festering in a dark place. It's the word that will either feed into Alastor's desire for entertainment- that twisted sense of humor- or it's the word that will bring a sledgehammer down on the conversation. The match tossed onto a pyre that's already been doused with gasoline a hundred times over. Vox will take delight in watching it burn all around him, if that's the case. No regrets.
So his grin turns even more twisted. Unhinged. The grin of a man who's far gone and knows it. His mouth opens to convey the inaudible syllables of a single word.
[ It's as close as anyone could get to seeing his smile slip, but even then the shift are subtle and difficult to discern, something that anyone else might have missed. No one could be faulted for missing those minor differences, nor the way that his eyes widen for a fraction of a second as he processes the word. His grip tightens before he releases Vox as quickly as if he'd been burned, resting his hands on his knee instead.
Any insult that Vox could have come up with would have been less offensive to the conscious than what Vox had decided on. It encapsulates all of them. It's still unexpected enough to warrant a shake of the shoulders and a heave of his chest before the laughter that had been bubbling up escapes. It's a short laugh, incredulous. ]
Pfft... Hahaha... Is this your way of trying to kill me? By causing me to laugh so hard that I choke on my own tears?
[ The reaction is muted when compared to how it had been seventy years ago, but not for it being any less of a shot to the heart. The decades have refined him, had steeled him, and now he sees victory within his grasp. His relationship with Vox has served its purpose, and this entire affair is just a waste of time. Why is he even still alive? If he wants to die so bad, he should've just killed himself and left everyone else be. He should have went and found some hole to rot in like he miserable creature that he is. Who the Hell even wants him other than people who "need" him? Who can look down on him? Who are are even more disposable? He could kill Vox today, and by tomorrow everyone would have forgotten him. In fact, people have already started to despite his past accomplishments.
What a stupid man. He's saying it to irritate, to try to pry open some wound that never existed. ]
Seventy years and you're still just as pathetic as the day that I met you. You really can't do anything right.
[ Not even answer a simple question, or at least not embarrass himself by answering. He places a hand on Vox's chest and gives a hard shove. Why is he even wasting his time on this? ]
[The laughter doesn't affect Vox the way it did back then. He'd braced himself for it, expecting it might come before any other blow up. Sure enough, here he is, proven right. And he can't help but note that Alastor never directly denies the claim. He finds it amusing, accuses Vox of all sorts of weaknesses, but there's no true "you're wrong" there. Maybe Alastor thinks it should go without saying, or maybe he won't say those words because he can't back them up. Vox won't assume, because that kind of blind naivety has shot him in the foot before. Even if it were true, what would it change? Nothing.
So Vox laughs. It's utterly silent, but shows off the gesture in every other way, shoulders shaking as much as the restraints will allow. If it's between this and letting some other, weaker emotion like fear or sadness weasel its way in, laughter wins out all the time.
Alastor shoves him, and not much happens. He can't fall backwards. The way he's seated, tendrils still around his arms, supports his upright position.]
[ There is no you're wrong because it's not entirely wrong. Friends such as we desire are dreams and fables. That laughter grows a little louder, more manic, wild and uncontrolled. Seventy long years have allowed him such control over his emotions that he doesn't immediately blow up. He doesn't snap. He knows better now. He has control now, because that point in time where he had some delusion of comfort and security has long since passed.
Friends. What a fucking joke. It makes him want to laugh. It makes his shoulders shake and his chest heaves, it makes him laugh, and it does it so thoroughly that in between those laughs no sound comes out at all. It's disgusting, and if he cared at all, he would send the other off right now, but he doesn't.
Instead, he adjusts the grip of those tendrils subtly. He does so enough that he can slip an arm around Vox's knees and pull them up while pushing his chest down, forcing him into a laying position, knees still knocked together. ]
To think that I was going to let you go, too...
[ He'll taunt just a bit by slipping his fingers beneath those tendrils, and his hand slips through them as though they were water as he runs a hand up from Vox's stomach up to his neck, fingers curling around it. ]
Why are you alive? If I kill you today, everyone will have forgotten you tomorrow.
[ Still not a denial, but those fingers are wrapped around his throat. And those bindings around him might start to adjust themselves, forcing Vox into a spreadeagled position.
It's always paybacks with them, but Vox wants love, and Alastor wants to forget. He wants to be numb. ]
[It's not until Vox's legs are pulled out from under his body that his silent laughing halts. Not until Alastor's hand succeeds in shoving him onto his back, the tendrils adjusting their hold to ensure it plays out that way. He's forced fully onto the ground, legs and arms still bound, gaze tilted mostly upward towards the sky. He can still adjust his head's angle to try and peer Alastor's way, and he does so with a grin that's slowly losing its amusement, straining with apprehension instead.
Vox doesn't breathe the way typical people (sinner demons, hellborns, whatever) do. Not though his mouth, anyway. That doesn't mean air doesn't need to flow from his head to the rest of his body, though. It has to pass through his neck, so when Alastor's fingers close around his throat, it cuts some of that flow off. He doesn't choke, doesn't have the reflex to do that anymore, but he can feel the discomfort anyway.
'Everyone will have forgotten him tomorrow'... The sentiment hurts. He doesn't think it's true- doesn't want it to be true- but it sends his mind reeling anyway, wondering how long it'd take for Valentino to replace him. That ungrateful whore.
The position of Vox's body is adjusted further, limbs pulled outward. Only now does he consider fighting back again. Only now does it hit him that he'd like to get out of here. Permanent or not permanent, he can't waste time on death. So he closes his eyes and tries to shock Alastor with a strong current.]
[ It isn't hard at all for him to shock Alastor. There's the wire around his wrist, still ignored, but more importantly than that is the hand around his throat. There's no avoiding the currents that Vox sends out. He can only endure it. His body twitches violently as the currents run through him, his muscles contracting, and that grip around his throat reflexively tightening. It's through luck alone that he stops short of snapping it outright, because he can't so much as think through the searing pain, much less control his body.
Once it's passed, he chuckles. His eyes gleam in the darkness of the swamp, that toothy grin widening with anticipation. He pulls his hand back, away from the man's neck, and despite having just been electrocuted twirls his index finger around the wire still attached to his wrist.
Good. That candy ass acceptance of death doesn't suit the Media Overlord. ]
You know it better than anyone, don't you? People are easily replaced. Those partners of yours can find another you in less than a minute.
[ That's how their operation works, isn't it? They plaster up posters and let those nobodies they yank off the street live out a life of glitz and glamour, glitter and gold, and then toss them back out onto them. Alastor doesn't much care about that, and he's the last person to feel sympathy for those who fall prey to such an obvious scam, but he knows about it. He knows how to weaponize it.
His free hand moves onto Vox's chest, and he pushes down as he leans in closer, canting his head. He keeps going, but he's considering what it is that he wants to do next, ]
Seven years later, my name still inspires fear, and my numbers are still hitting record highs, all without me even needing to bring on any guest stars - and what of you? It's only been weeks, but half of Hell has already forgotten you were ever here at all.
[There's a long moment where the electrocution makes it worse, Alastor's hold on him tightening. Squeezing. It hurts. Even so, Vox pushes through it, hopeful it'll pay off in the end. Once he's sure he's made his point, he allows the currents to die down again. Despite Alastor's ominous chuckle, the hand is pulled away from his throat, allowing the air flow within his body to return to normal. He doesn't need to gasp, but some very human part of him mimics the action anyway.
Vox does know quite well how easily that replacing works. He was the one who always did the replacing. He moved into the openings left behind by the weak once they were disposed of. He refuses to be one of those weaklings. If the other two Vees even try to replace him, they'll regret it.
When Alastor's hand comes to rest on Vox's chest, it's sure to be palpable; that rise and fall of what would be his rib cage. It's a little faster than it usually would be, compensating for the interruption of the air flow from earlier. His heart is beating faster as well, his body's functions working harder due to stress. He stares Alastor down, but his earlier arrogance is fading. He's still angry, defiant and all those things, but the bite isn't as sharp.]
[ The rise and fall of his chest, the quickened heartbeat, the fading confidence... It's exicting. Alastor is quite the opposite. That grin stretches out. His eyes brighten, his look growing predatory, his attention completely locked on Vox now. His fingers scrape down Vox's chest, down to his stomach. It's light enough to avoid tearing fabric, but Vox can no doubt feel those sharp fingertips threatening to pierce him.
He hums thoughtfully before he moves himself back and down, brushing Vox's jacket out of the way. He uses to fingers to tug one side up by a handful of inches, and examines the area, considering. He uses those same fingers to tug down one side of his waistband next, just enough that his side is visible. He runs his finger around the area next, running it up his cooling vents, checking the area around it to see where flesh and bone are until he finds a spot that he likes. Normally, this is the part where a person begins to make noise. Their pleas start to get more desperate, their threats intensify, and then - finally - the first scream comes. It's like popping the cork off a wine bottle.
Vox comes complete with a mute button, so that will never come, but he thinks that the wine will flow just as freely when he leans down to bite down on his side - just above the hip. He doesn't want hot air being blown into him, so he won't bite directly into his cooling vents, but right around that area. It could be a romantic gesture, if not for how deep those razor sharp teeth sink into the flesh. ]
[For years and years, Vox would've loved to feel Alastor's fingers running up his torso like that, scraping and stroking and exploring. Whether the intent was affectionate or to cause harm, it didn't matter all too much in his fantasies. All that mattered was that Alastor's attention was on him, seeking out boundaries just to cross them.
Now that exact thing is happening, and it's not what he always dreamed. It's too much; too overwhelming. Too malicious and invasive, because Vox would like it to stop but he's got very few options to do anything about it. Even if he could, he wouldn't beg, and stopping it by force is tricky when most of what he can do would just have Alastor doubling down. The exposure of bare skin prickles at him. He throws his head back as he squirms with discomfort.
Then comes the bite, with numerous sharp teeth piercing skin to damage flesh, and he does scream. Just because the sound is muted doesn't mean it doesn't exist. It echoes through Vox's mind as if were capable of being vocalized beyond that point. His entire body tenses up with agony, and the vents release bursts of warm air in hasty, successive puffs. And he bleeds, of course. The large amount of hardware within him doesn't mean there's no circulation of something so very typical to both mortals and demons.]
[ It's an experience that he's never had before, and presently Alastor realizes how distracting those screams really were. They were part of the sensory experience, and it feels incomplete without them, but it's made up for by how well he can focus on the body writhing beneath him, the hot air that comes from his vents, and the sounds that come with the body hitting against the ground. He can feel that warmth on his face, staining his hands, and one hand reaches over to grab the opposite side. His nails dig in, trying to hold the other in place as he sinks his teeth in even deeper.
He shudders in response to that warmth, the sensation of blood filling his mouth and staining his face. It's been awhile since he's been able to do this, and no matter how bad the taste, it's ecstasy every time. But Vox is quite lucky, because with anyone else he would have ripped the flesh clean off, but here, he stops at biting, removing his teeth and tilting his head to the side as he examines the injury before dragging his tongue along the area, lapping up the blood as it flows out of him.
And somewhere in that, in a hushed voice - ]
You don't taste half-bad.
[ He doesn't taste good, not being organic, but not as bad as Alastor thought he might either. ]
[Sharp nails digging into his other waist is painful, but still only a mild prickle compared to what Alastor's teeth are doing. Over the decades, Vox has taken plenty of hard blows in fights. Plenty of cuts and bruises, and even the loss of an arm that one time. Pain is something he knows, and he usually recovers from it fast enough, but an injury like this is different. It seems to go on forever, only getting worse as Alastor's teeth sink in deeper.
He shouldn't have pissed this man off. He got carried away again, let his emotions get the better of him, and now he's paying the price.
As soon as Alastor withdraws, Vox's body releases some of the tension built up inside it, lying down fully flat against the ground again. He's left wheezing, and even with Alastor lapping up some of the blood, it still starts to stain his shirt. There's open wounds on his back and on his abdomen, all aligned in a perfect half oval the shape of Alastor's jaws. His hands curl into fists and he tries to pull at the tendrils again. Futile, maybe, but it's better than playing dead.]
[ He hadn't intended to cause such a deep wound, and it doesn't take more than a single look at the area as he pulls away to know that he'd gotten too excited. He swallows down the rest of of the blood he'd taken in, but more drips down from the corner of his mouth the moment he opens it to speak. ]
I'm sure that you were thinking earlier that you could accept being killed by me.
[ He lifts one hand up, scrubbing his mouth with the back of his sleeve now. It's undignified, but these activities are always a dirty affair. Once that's done, he'll start the process of using that same hand to roll Vox's shirt up. ]
This is just a hint of what it's like for an overlord to die by my hands. I offer up to them the worst pain that they've ever felt.
[ Regular sinners are lucky by comparison. He still plays with his food, he gives them a horrifically painful death, but it's at least relatively quick. Overlords are sturdier, more troublesome, and so he has his fun with them. It's like taking a spider and cutting off one leg at a time, and between snips releasing it just to watch it try and fail to escape on its remaining limbs. The screams, gasps, and sobs are all music to his ears during those times.
Here, he prefers the silence.
He keeps his head dipped, staring down at the man's torso rather than his face, but he can see the attempts at pulling at the tendrils in his peripheral vision. It's useless, of course - no amount of pulling at his restraints will grant Vox his freedom. They hold tight. ]
[Vox is absolutely trying to backpedal now. It's one thing to be threatened with death; that's nothing new, people do that in Hell all the time. It's another thing entirely to be experiencing true agony and helplessness. That's what comes rare, which amplifies the sensations quite a bit. He's not on 'worst pain he's ever felt' levels, but he doubts Alastor's going to stop here. The way his shirt is being rolled up, out of the way, is a strong indicator of that.
He can't accept this. He won't. The cables he released earlier are still out, no longer pulling at trees now and instead lying flat on the ground. They all move at once, springing towards Alastor. One tries to wrap around Alastor's hand to stop it from moving his shirt up any further. The others aim for the radio demon's torso, to try and push him back.]
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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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He continues, at last getting to his point, ]
There's no need to ask if I want to kill you, and if it's not if I could kill you - at this point, I'd say it's not even if I should. We both already know that I can and I do.
[ He should. He needs to, because he won't know peace until he does now. The thought will always be there, looming in his mind. He'll live with a noose tightening around his neck. ]
So then, the question is: Why haven't I killed you yet?
[ His fingers twitch once more, and there's something else hidden in those words. Why, in seventy years? It wasn't as though he'd gone soft on the man. In fact, he'd tapped into more and more of his toolkit over the years as things stopped working (and what a surprise it had been when the man had figured a way to detect and yank him out of the shadows he hid in.) But something always got in the way. He always wanted to make him suffer more, he wanted to toy with him more, and he'd let him slink off to lick his wounds. It was that, and it was something else, something that always prevented him from going as far as he could. And it was fine; it was simple, something that required neither acknowledgment nor thought.
It does now, but he isn't acting on it.
It's the question he'd brought Vox here to try to find an answer to, he realizes. If she should, how he would - those things were just a way of getting here.
Without letting go of Vox's face, he sinks down to one knee, bringing himself down to eye level with the man. No matter how long he stares, there's no answer to be found hidden on that screen. There's nothing in that visage that can tell him. ]
What do you think? Tell me. Why is it that even after all these years, I still haven't killed you?
[ That facade of calm is still there, but chips start to appear in it as he goes on. There's the slightest tremor of the mouth, and a quiver of the eyelids, and as he goes the pressure of his grip grows stronger. He tightens it just a bit more to run off any risk of his hands shaking. And the words themselves come to be off - collected at first, but an undertones of irritation and bitterness start to work their way in as he goes on, and by the end something else still has found its way in. It's some foreign emotion works its way in, something undefinable and unrecognizable for how little its shown itself.
Why is this man even alive? No one would care if he died.
His grip loosens once more as he watches for an answer that he knows won't come. Even if Vox could speak, Alastor doubts he would have an answer to give. ]
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He waits and he listens and he watches. It isn't just the situation that's off, it's Alastor himself. There's the little details in his posture and his facial expression. It's as close to wiping the smile off his face as Vox could get, probably, and he hadn't even intended to do it.
Why indeed? It's another one of those opportunities to grab hold of. The type of opening that Vox likes to jam a crowbar into, to pry and break and overall cause even more damage. Sure enough, there's quite a few spiteful words that come to his mind. 'Coward' or 'weak', or 'sentiment'. But then it hits him. That one word that's been there for seventy years already, itching and burning and festering in a dark place. It's the word that will either feed into Alastor's desire for entertainment- that twisted sense of humor- or it's the word that will bring a sledgehammer down on the conversation. The match tossed onto a pyre that's already been doused with gasoline a hundred times over. Vox will take delight in watching it burn all around him, if that's the case. No regrets.
So his grin turns even more twisted. Unhinged. The grin of a man who's far gone and knows it. His mouth opens to convey the inaudible syllables of a single word.
"Friends".]
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Any insult that Vox could have come up with would have been less offensive to the conscious than what Vox had decided on. It encapsulates all of them. It's still unexpected enough to warrant a shake of the shoulders and a heave of his chest before the laughter that had been bubbling up escapes. It's a short laugh, incredulous. ]
Pfft... Hahaha... Is this your way of trying to kill me? By causing me to laugh so hard that I choke on my own tears?
[ The reaction is muted when compared to how it had been seventy years ago, but not for it being any less of a shot to the heart. The decades have refined him, had steeled him, and now he sees victory within his grasp. His relationship with Vox has served its purpose, and this entire affair is just a waste of time. Why is he even still alive? If he wants to die so bad, he should've just killed himself and left everyone else be. He should have went and found some hole to rot in like he miserable creature that he is. Who the Hell even wants him other than people who "need" him? Who can look down on him? Who are are even more disposable? He could kill Vox today, and by tomorrow everyone would have forgotten him. In fact, people have already started to despite his past accomplishments.
What a stupid man. He's saying it to irritate, to try to pry open some wound that never existed. ]
Seventy years and you're still just as pathetic as the day that I met you. You really can't do anything right.
[ Not even answer a simple question, or at least not embarrass himself by answering. He places a hand on Vox's chest and gives a hard shove. Why is he even wasting his time on this? ]
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So Vox laughs. It's utterly silent, but shows off the gesture in every other way, shoulders shaking as much as the restraints will allow. If it's between this and letting some other, weaker emotion like fear or sadness weasel its way in, laughter wins out all the time.
Alastor shoves him, and not much happens. He can't fall backwards. The way he's seated, tendrils still around his arms, supports his upright position.]
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Friends. What a fucking joke. It makes him want to laugh. It makes his shoulders shake and his chest heaves, it makes him laugh, and it does it so thoroughly that in between those laughs no sound comes out at all. It's disgusting, and if he cared at all, he would send the other off right now, but he doesn't.
Instead, he adjusts the grip of those tendrils subtly. He does so enough that he can slip an arm around Vox's knees and pull them up while pushing his chest down, forcing him into a laying position, knees still knocked together. ]
To think that I was going to let you go, too...
[ He'll taunt just a bit by slipping his fingers beneath those tendrils, and his hand slips through them as though they were water as he runs a hand up from Vox's stomach up to his neck, fingers curling around it. ]
Why are you alive? If I kill you today, everyone will have forgotten you tomorrow.
[ Still not a denial, but those fingers are wrapped around his throat. And those bindings around him might start to adjust themselves, forcing Vox into a spreadeagled position.
It's always paybacks with them, but Vox wants love, and Alastor wants to forget. He wants to be numb. ]
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Vox doesn't breathe the way typical people (sinner demons, hellborns, whatever) do. Not though his mouth, anyway. That doesn't mean air doesn't need to flow from his head to the rest of his body, though. It has to pass through his neck, so when Alastor's fingers close around his throat, it cuts some of that flow off. He doesn't choke, doesn't have the reflex to do that anymore, but he can feel the discomfort anyway.
'Everyone will have forgotten him tomorrow'... The sentiment hurts. He doesn't think it's true- doesn't want it to be true- but it sends his mind reeling anyway, wondering how long it'd take for Valentino to replace him. That ungrateful whore.
The position of Vox's body is adjusted further, limbs pulled outward. Only now does he consider fighting back again. Only now does it hit him that he'd like to get out of here. Permanent or not permanent, he can't waste time on death. So he closes his eyes and tries to shock Alastor with a strong current.]
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Once it's passed, he chuckles. His eyes gleam in the darkness of the swamp, that toothy grin widening with anticipation. He pulls his hand back, away from the man's neck, and despite having just been electrocuted twirls his index finger around the wire still attached to his wrist.
Good. That candy ass acceptance of death doesn't suit the Media Overlord. ]
You know it better than anyone, don't you? People are easily replaced. Those partners of yours can find another you in less than a minute.
[ That's how their operation works, isn't it? They plaster up posters and let those nobodies they yank off the street live out a life of glitz and glamour, glitter and gold, and then toss them back out onto them. Alastor doesn't much care about that, and he's the last person to feel sympathy for those who fall prey to such an obvious scam, but he knows about it. He knows how to weaponize it.
His free hand moves onto Vox's chest, and he pushes down as he leans in closer, canting his head. He keeps going, but he's considering what it is that he wants to do next, ]
Seven years later, my name still inspires fear, and my numbers are still hitting record highs, all without me even needing to bring on any guest stars - and what of you? It's only been weeks, but half of Hell has already forgotten you were ever here at all.
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Vox does know quite well how easily that replacing works. He was the one who always did the replacing. He moved into the openings left behind by the weak once they were disposed of. He refuses to be one of those weaklings. If the other two Vees even try to replace him, they'll regret it.
When Alastor's hand comes to rest on Vox's chest, it's sure to be palpable; that rise and fall of what would be his rib cage. It's a little faster than it usually would be, compensating for the interruption of the air flow from earlier. His heart is beating faster as well, his body's functions working harder due to stress. He stares Alastor down, but his earlier arrogance is fading. He's still angry, defiant and all those things, but the bite isn't as sharp.]
"biting you" but it's literal now
He hums thoughtfully before he moves himself back and down, brushing Vox's jacket out of the way. He uses to fingers to tug one side up by a handful of inches, and examines the area, considering. He uses those same fingers to tug down one side of his waistband next, just enough that his side is visible. He runs his finger around the area next, running it up his cooling vents, checking the area around it to see where flesh and bone are until he finds a spot that he likes. Normally, this is the part where a person begins to make noise. Their pleas start to get more desperate, their threats intensify, and then - finally - the first scream comes. It's like popping the cork off a wine bottle.
Vox comes complete with a mute button, so that will never come, but he thinks that the wine will flow just as freely when he leans down to bite down on his side - just above the hip. He doesn't want hot air being blown into him, so he won't bite directly into his cooling vents, but right around that area. It could be a romantic gesture, if not for how deep those razor sharp teeth sink into the flesh. ]
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Now that exact thing is happening, and it's not what he always dreamed. It's too much; too overwhelming. Too malicious and invasive, because Vox would like it to stop but he's got very few options to do anything about it. Even if he could, he wouldn't beg, and stopping it by force is tricky when most of what he can do would just have Alastor doubling down. The exposure of bare skin prickles at him. He throws his head back as he squirms with discomfort.
Then comes the bite, with numerous sharp teeth piercing skin to damage flesh, and he does scream. Just because the sound is muted doesn't mean it doesn't exist. It echoes through Vox's mind as if were capable of being vocalized beyond that point. His entire body tenses up with agony, and the vents release bursts of warm air in hasty, successive puffs. And he bleeds, of course. The large amount of hardware within him doesn't mean there's no circulation of something so very typical to both mortals and demons.]
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He shudders in response to that warmth, the sensation of blood filling his mouth and staining his face. It's been awhile since he's been able to do this, and no matter how bad the taste, it's ecstasy every time. But Vox is quite lucky, because with anyone else he would have ripped the flesh clean off, but here, he stops at biting, removing his teeth and tilting his head to the side as he examines the injury before dragging his tongue along the area, lapping up the blood as it flows out of him.
And somewhere in that, in a hushed voice - ]
You don't taste half-bad.
[ He doesn't taste good, not being organic, but not as bad as Alastor thought he might either. ]
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He shouldn't have pissed this man off. He got carried away again, let his emotions get the better of him, and now he's paying the price.
As soon as Alastor withdraws, Vox's body releases some of the tension built up inside it, lying down fully flat against the ground again. He's left wheezing, and even with Alastor lapping up some of the blood, it still starts to stain his shirt. There's open wounds on his back and on his abdomen, all aligned in a perfect half oval the shape of Alastor's jaws. His hands curl into fists and he tries to pull at the tendrils again. Futile, maybe, but it's better than playing dead.]
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I'm sure that you were thinking earlier that you could accept being killed by me.
[ He lifts one hand up, scrubbing his mouth with the back of his sleeve now. It's undignified, but these activities are always a dirty affair. Once that's done, he'll start the process of using that same hand to roll Vox's shirt up. ]
This is just a hint of what it's like for an overlord to die by my hands. I offer up to them the worst pain that they've ever felt.
[ Regular sinners are lucky by comparison. He still plays with his food, he gives them a horrifically painful death, but it's at least relatively quick. Overlords are sturdier, more troublesome, and so he has his fun with them. It's like taking a spider and cutting off one leg at a time, and between snips releasing it just to watch it try and fail to escape on its remaining limbs. The screams, gasps, and sobs are all music to his ears during those times.
Here, he prefers the silence.
He keeps his head dipped, staring down at the man's torso rather than his face, but he can see the attempts at pulling at the tendrils in his peripheral vision. It's useless, of course - no amount of pulling at his restraints will grant Vox his freedom. They hold tight. ]
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He can't accept this. He won't. The cables he released earlier are still out, no longer pulling at trees now and instead lying flat on the ground. They all move at once, springing towards Alastor. One tries to wrap around Alastor's hand to stop it from moving his shirt up any further. The others aim for the radio demon's torso, to try and push him back.]
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