[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.]
There's a reason that Alastor keeps his feelings so tightly packed together, and there's a reason that he's so disciplined in his behavior. The moment he allows his emotions start to take control, he loses sight of his actions. He acts as the demon that he is, demanding some sacrifice to quell his rage - to apply a salve to those old wounds that are constantly reopening, healing and scarring; all the anger, all the failures and lack of control and mockery and weakness.
Vox was just unlucky enough to tear open one of those wounds, one that had scabbed over but never scarred.
But he is lucky that the radio demon is fixated on his task. He's not looking directly at the other, keeping his gaze fixed on the body beneath him, and already he's created a plan in his mind for what to do. He's actually trembling in anticipation of it, his smile stretched across his face with an unsettling curve. Vox has mechanical parts to him, and Alastor has fought with him enough to have some idea of how it all pieces together, and that means that there's plenty that he can do with him that he couldn't with -
His train of thought is interrupted by the wire that stops his hand in place first. His fingers freeze in place, but by time he's started to reach for it, he's already being knocked back. His hand retreats, pulling back as he tries to use it to keep his balance. ]
[Alastor's gaze is terrifying. It takes Vox in not like a person, but like an object. A plaything. A meal. Something to be taken advantage of, to use for satisfaction. Not a friend, not a foe, not even a fellow demon. His only value lies in entertainment, which is ironic, considering what he's always marketed himself as.
So he tries to snap Alastor back to reality with the harsh shove. His cable releases the man's wrist, instead joining the others in their attempt to push Alastor back further. He'd try to convey a sentiment some other way; attempt to word an inaudible "stop" or even a "no", but the stinging pain in his abdomen distracts too much. All his energy goes into keeping the radio demon at bay, even as he struggles to keep his eyes open through pricking tears and hazy static.]
[ Alastor is pushed back further and further still, until he finally falls back on his ass and finds himself scrambling back and away from where he has Vox is pinned down. There's a moment of stunned silence as he tries to take in the situation that he himself had created, because it takes him that long to recall what it is that he had been doing.
He shakes his head as he tries to collect himself. His smile has thinned out, and his ears lay flat back, discomposed and displeased with this turn of events. ]
... Vox.
[ He breathes out the name despite not wanting to say anything at all. He's done.
Alastor is done. He's not fine in the least. Those disgusting feelings are still there, and it feels like he'll just die if he doesn't find an outlet for them, but the look on Vox's face - one so familiar to him from so many years of experience, but foreign on him - is enough to temper him. There's no longer pleasure to be found in the act of violence, no outlet that he can use - nothing but that hatred and anger he has for the world, those feelings that he swallows back down despite feeling like he's choking on them. There's an exhaustion that sinks all the way through them, and something else that makes him want to retreat, to get away from this, to do something.
But all that comes is a single name, and one hand reaching up to run through his hair. ]
[As soon as Alastor falls back, the cables stop their frantic push. He can't see it from his current angle, TV still lying flat on the ground, but he can hear the scrambling which indicates even more distance. It's a reprieve. He doesn't know for how long, but it's something.
His chest is still rapidly rising and falling, breath quickened not to the point of hyperventilation, but to something dizzying anyway. His hands clench and unclench into fists at irregular intervals. The sound of his own name muscles its way through the haze and he doesn't know what to make of it. Is he being reprimanded, or is it something else?
The cables retreat for now, sticking near his sides like guard dogs- or, well, snakes- ready to strike again at a second's notice. He doesn't know what happens next, but as long as his arms and legs are being restrained, he's on guard.]
[ Alastor's fingernails scratch against his scalp, and he yanks on his hair. That anger is still there. That restless energy needs somewhere to go, and even more now, but there's nothing that he can do with it. He forces himself to take a deep breath instead. He breathes in once, twice, and by the third or fourth breath he stops pulling at his hair. He wipes his mouth again. The taste of blood is still there. The media overlord's blood leaves a foul aftertaste. ]
You don't want to die.
[ His tone has returned to its normal cadence. He's outwardly collected again. He scrubs a little more before he takes his staff in hand and pushes himself up. It was just one bite, but it was a hearty one. He can see the way that the blood stains his hands and jacket. His hair feels sticky in places. ]
You didn't want to die before.
[ And as he says those words Alastor snaps his fingers, and with it his games come to an end. The tendrils disappear, turning into wisps of smoke in the air. The entrance to the bedroom reappears. The mute button is toggled once more. Everything is put back the way it's supposed to be. Because if he doesn't, if they go any further than this, then Alastor knows that he really won't be able to stop. ]
[In truth, Vox doesn't know. He's already died once. It was a dreadful ordeal, but he 'lived on' past that, reincarnated into something different. He picked himself back up, pushed all the trauma down and kept walking. Dying is different now, just another inconvenience to suffer through. An extended, dreamless sleep quite possibly preceded by some kind of physical agony. And who even knows what happens to those slain during the Exterminations? Maybe there's a lower level of Hell that nobody can know of, since no one comes back from it.
He doesn't know. He does think it'd be nice to follow Alastor's advice and 'disconnect' for a little while. No haunting or obsessive thoughts, no heavy emotions, no responsibilities... Nothing. Just go offline and come back some other day, when there's a chance Hell might be different.
The tendrils vanish and at once, Vox's arms wrap around his bleeding torso. His knees bend, lifting up from the ground. He doesn't even realize the mute's been undone until a single word leaves him in an exhausted groan.]
[ It could be that no one really wants to die, or it could just be that people stop wanting to upon meeting them. But he can't think of one single person who didn't have their life snuffed out wishing that it would continue. Even here in Hell, it seems to him that people don't appreciate how painful it is.
Alastor conjures a towel as he takes a few steps forward to close the gap between them once more. He bends down on one knee beside him to examine the damage. It's nothing that can't be undone, and if the man can't patch himself up then Alastor will at least take responsibility for cleaning up the mess that he made. He doesn't say anything more yet, instead waiting to see if Vox will use his newly returned speaking privileges. ]
[As soon as Alastor steps closer, the cables rise up again, sparking and sputtering, ready to strike if needed. It's not needed, though. The hostility seems to be gone. That doesn't leave Vox any less of a mess, blood still seeping out from underneath his arm. It's staining the faux dirt below him. At most, the static subsides, leaving his facial expression less obscured. He peers towards Alastor from the corner of his eye, apprehensive.]
[ He confirms. Vox looks a mess. Pain is at its worst when a person is cornered, panicked, and afforded nothing else to focus on. Upon looking at the blood standing the ground, he has to admit to himself that leaving the man muted had been a mistake. The silence allowed him to focus on what was beneath claws and teeth alone. He might have caught himself otherwise. ]
Congratulations. You're the first one to survive.
[ He offers cheerlessly, unable to even feign any emotion. For anyone else, the only reward for winning would be a grizzly death. It was just one more way of making them despair. It was a staple for a reason.
He taps Vox's arm, indicating for him to use it. He needs to apply pressure to the area. ]
[Vox doesn't know whether he should be honored or not. He still doesn't even know what made Alastor stop in the first place. He'd seemed real determined to finish Vox off before. That stray thought of 'friends' comes to mind again, leaving him to smile bitterly. As if. There's probably some other reason, but Vox can't be assed to figure it out right now.]
Hurray for me...
[He moves his arm to the side as soon as it's tapped, allowing it to fall by his side. The sleeve's wet now, having soaked up a significant amount of blood. He'll have to teleport straight to his room and get rid of these clothes before anyone sees. The last thing he wants is questions about what went down.]
[ He tucks his other leg under him know, shifting into a proper kneeling position before he presses the towel against the injury. It's not like him to do something like this, and he's not quite sure why he is. It's not out of guilt, and it's not out of fear of retribution either. The pair of them tearing each other up is nothing new.
Alastor sighs, and he has the distinct feeling that he's going to regret what he's about to say, but... ]
You should at least get cleaned up before you leave... [ Or his injury, anyway. There's no saving that outfit. Either way, he'll take the time to clean up the mess that he made. ] Do you need me to stitch you up?
[The towel presses down, and Vox hisses loudly. He can't actually release breath through his teeth, but he sure can mimic the sound. The problem with an injury like this is that it's not just one wound; it's quite a few of them, all lined up in the same area. It hurts like a bitch, and he'll squirm as much as he wants.]
I dunno... Does it need stitches?
[He hasn't actually looked at it, because looking means lifting up his head and part of his upper torso. He'd much rather just remain flat on the ground for now. It leaves him blind to how bad the injury is.]
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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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There's a reason that Alastor keeps his feelings so tightly packed together, and there's a reason that he's so disciplined in his behavior. The moment he allows his emotions start to take control, he loses sight of his actions. He acts as the demon that he is, demanding some sacrifice to quell his rage - to apply a salve to those old wounds that are constantly reopening, healing and scarring; all the anger, all the failures and lack of control and mockery and weakness.
Vox was just unlucky enough to tear open one of those wounds, one that had scabbed over but never scarred.
But he is lucky that the radio demon is fixated on his task. He's not looking directly at the other, keeping his gaze fixed on the body beneath him, and already he's created a plan in his mind for what to do. He's actually trembling in anticipation of it, his smile stretched across his face with an unsettling curve. Vox has mechanical parts to him, and Alastor has fought with him enough to have some idea of how it all pieces together, and that means that there's plenty that he can do with him that he couldn't with -
His train of thought is interrupted by the wire that stops his hand in place first. His fingers freeze in place, but by time he's started to reach for it, he's already being knocked back. His hand retreats, pulling back as he tries to use it to keep his balance. ]
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So he tries to snap Alastor back to reality with the harsh shove. His cable releases the man's wrist, instead joining the others in their attempt to push Alastor back further. He'd try to convey a sentiment some other way; attempt to word an inaudible "stop" or even a "no", but the stinging pain in his abdomen distracts too much. All his energy goes into keeping the radio demon at bay, even as he struggles to keep his eyes open through pricking tears and hazy static.]
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He shakes his head as he tries to collect himself. His smile has thinned out, and his ears lay flat back, discomposed and displeased with this turn of events. ]
... Vox.
[ He breathes out the name despite not wanting to say anything at all. He's done.
Alastor is done. He's not fine in the least. Those disgusting feelings are still there, and it feels like he'll just die if he doesn't find an outlet for them, but the look on Vox's face - one so familiar to him from so many years of experience, but foreign on him - is enough to temper him. There's no longer pleasure to be found in the act of violence, no outlet that he can use - nothing but that hatred and anger he has for the world, those feelings that he swallows back down despite feeling like he's choking on them. There's an exhaustion that sinks all the way through them, and something else that makes him want to retreat, to get away from this, to do something.
But all that comes is a single name, and one hand reaching up to run through his hair. ]
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His chest is still rapidly rising and falling, breath quickened not to the point of hyperventilation, but to something dizzying anyway. His hands clench and unclench into fists at irregular intervals. The sound of his own name muscles its way through the haze and he doesn't know what to make of it. Is he being reprimanded, or is it something else?
The cables retreat for now, sticking near his sides like guard dogs- or, well, snakes- ready to strike again at a second's notice. He doesn't know what happens next, but as long as his arms and legs are being restrained, he's on guard.]
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You don't want to die.
[ His tone has returned to its normal cadence. He's outwardly collected again. He scrubs a little more before he takes his staff in hand and pushes himself up. It was just one bite, but it was a hearty one. He can see the way that the blood stains his hands and jacket. His hair feels sticky in places. ]
You didn't want to die before.
[ And as he says those words Alastor snaps his fingers, and with it his games come to an end. The tendrils disappear, turning into wisps of smoke in the air. The entrance to the bedroom reappears. The mute button is toggled once more. Everything is put back the way it's supposed to be. Because if he doesn't, if they go any further than this, then Alastor knows that he really won't be able to stop. ]
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He doesn't know. He does think it'd be nice to follow Alastor's advice and 'disconnect' for a little while. No haunting or obsessive thoughts, no heavy emotions, no responsibilities... Nothing. Just go offline and come back some other day, when there's a chance Hell might be different.
The tendrils vanish and at once, Vox's arms wrap around his bleeding torso. His knees bend, lifting up from the ground. He doesn't even realize the mute's been undone until a single word leaves him in an exhausted groan.]
Fu-fuck...
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Alastor conjures a towel as he takes a few steps forward to close the gap between them once more. He bends down on one knee beside him to examine the damage. It's nothing that can't be undone, and if the man can't patch himself up then Alastor will at least take responsibility for cleaning up the mess that he made. He doesn't say anything more yet, instead waiting to see if Vox will use his newly returned speaking privileges. ]
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... Game over?
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[ He confirms. Vox looks a mess. Pain is at its worst when a person is cornered, panicked, and afforded nothing else to focus on. Upon looking at the blood standing the ground, he has to admit to himself that leaving the man muted had been a mistake. The silence allowed him to focus on what was beneath claws and teeth alone. He might have caught himself otherwise. ]
Congratulations. You're the first one to survive.
[ He offers cheerlessly, unable to even feign any emotion. For anyone else, the only reward for winning would be a grizzly death. It was just one more way of making them despair. It was a staple for a reason.
He taps Vox's arm, indicating for him to use it. He needs to apply pressure to the area. ]
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Hurray for me...
[He moves his arm to the side as soon as it's tapped, allowing it to fall by his side. The sleeve's wet now, having soaked up a significant amount of blood. He'll have to teleport straight to his room and get rid of these clothes before anyone sees. The last thing he wants is questions about what went down.]
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Alastor sighs, and he has the distinct feeling that he's going to regret what he's about to say, but... ]
You should at least get cleaned up before you leave... [ Or his injury, anyway. There's no saving that outfit. Either way, he'll take the time to clean up the mess that he made. ] Do you need me to stitch you up?
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I dunno... Does it need stitches?
[He hasn't actually looked at it, because looking means lifting up his head and part of his upper torso. He'd much rather just remain flat on the ground for now. It leaves him blind to how bad the injury is.]
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