[ Vox might have consider himself to be fortunate at that moment. It was a pitiful note to end on, but Alastor hardly had time to offer anything in return. He slapped directly into the fabrics before him, the tip of one foot bumping against something on the ground, and the banging sound of the door being shut echoed in his ears.
But Alastor was selective about when and how he behaved, and right now he was satisfied with his perfect victory over the other. He had managed to get quite the rise out of the other, one that was bordering on leading to property damage, and he had been removed from his watchful gaze. Now, Vox could take comfort in the silence that followed his suggestion being accepted - or rather, being forced into following up on his threat.
Not that he particularly enjoyed being locked in a closet. His ears laid flat back, and he did stare at the door for a few seconds. But it was only for a few seconds before he lifted them and fixed his too-thin smile, and he he rolled himself back enough to bump against the door .It was a gentle bump this time, quiet, and he followed by inching himself forward until he was at just the right distance to be able to lean back against it at a precarious angle. The chair that he was given was quite flexible, even being able to lay down at ninety degree angle. Thus, he resolved himself to stay just like this, so he could fall back and fall out of it. ]
[Vox replayed what he said in his head as he stalked back to his desk, knowing he could have done better. He was wittier than that, sharper than that, better than that. Better than him.
Alastor just had that way of getting under his skin, down through his cables like the electricity that flowed through them, and no matter how much time had passed, he couldn’t stop it. Vox walked back to his chair, dropping heavily into it and trying to keep the unwanted thoughts out of his head. He didn’t want to remember Before. He didn’t want to think about it aside from what it was: fuel to beat Alastor, to humiliate him just as ruthlessly as he himself had been.
But like a virus, they crept in: talks that felt embarrassingly easy and nervous on his end, plotting over drinks, cigarettes that he once-upon-a-time he didn’t mind sharing. A smile he didn’t despise seeing.
And that smile had turned to laughter, mocking and cruel and-
His claw hovered over the keyboard, frozen in thoughts and memories for a few moments too long before he heard the noise from the closet. What…what was he doing? Couldn’t he let Vox have one thing?]
If you are fucking up my suits, I’m going to let Velvette take you apart and stitch you back together again. [He didn’t move from his desk this time, but he did snake out one of his cables and let it cut through the air towards the door. If he didn’t have stuff in there, he might have just left him to do whatever was doing, but it was personal] (it was always personal). It curled around the knob and yanked it open.]
Being a brat truly is his thing. Vox wants to be a brat tamer so bad too.
Alastor sprung out from the closet like a sideways jack in the box. He was tilted at such an angle that the back of the chair's seat easily fell back, and he found himself laying flat on his back. His legs were still crossed, knees pointed toward the ceiling, and his head lolled back so he could watch Vox. There were a couple blinks, because he actually hadn't surprised it to be that quick. Quick, certainly, but not that quick.
The toothy grin thinned out, and though the smile remained, it would have been hard to describe his expression as anything other than flat. ]
Do you mind? [ He said in some mockery of indignation. It was too dramatic to pass as it, and the undertones of amusement were quite noticeable. But it was playful, too, quite different than how he tended to treat others. ] I'm trying to think. I'm concocting all sorts of plots just for your sake.
[ Can this chair go back further? He experimentally tried pushing back on it, and it could! Now he was tilted further downward and at an even more awkward angle. It was hardly a pose that anyone would associate with such a terrifying figure, but Vox may have been quite used to those little quirks that started to show through once he liked someone well enough. He was at one time quite close to the man, and over the years of strife and insults and disdain, he had only grown more comfortable around him alone.
But all that aside, he hadn't been doing anything. Leave him alone. ]
[Vox didn’t want to be this quick, either, but he couldn’t trust Alastor when he was making noise. …Or when he was quiet. Really, any time at all, but he needed to put him somewhere.
Six feet underground sounded nice.
Vox stared flatly (ha) at the other overlord, annoyed by the very existence of him at the moment. He got up from his desk and wondered if he should just put the lock on the chair so he couldn’t lean back in it anymore, but that would require him getting close. Was that part of his plans? Who knows.]
Do I mind? Yes! Yes, I mind. [His teeth ground against each other before he growled, a low rumble of anger.] Where did you learn to be a prisoner, anyway?
[Because there was distinctly less apologies fear and shame than he had hoped for. His eyes stared at Alastor’s, reading a book in another language, before he shook his head. Fuck it. His cable dipped in, grabbed one of the wheels from the chair and ripped it out. Enjoy a crooked, unbalanced chair.]
Fine, I’ll bite. What plots for me?
Listen... I believe him (sort of.) He's just starting with Super Hell Nightmare Mode here.
[ Alastor only stared in response to the question. His smile thinned out as his lips pursed together, his eyes widened with confusion, and one could practically see the question mark appearing below his upside down head. His head tilted slightly to one side, and his ears did curve accordingly, before both fell back into place.
Did he seem like the sort of person who'd ever learned to be prisoner? Though it was a bit of a facade. His life was nothing but careful acts and acquiescing.to those around him. But here in hell, there he had done no such thing, and least of all with Vox.
His body shook as the chair leaned to one side, unable to support its leg at one angle, and he found himself leaning in that direction. The smile didn't so much as twitch, and in fact returned to being a toothy grin. ]
Well, you see, I've thought of about a hundred new ways to annoy you while I'm here. After seventy years, I thought I had exhausted all options, but now I realize that there's no shortage of them! For example, I could have you pull out one of the wheels on his chair, and then it would make the most horrible sounds when it was moving across the floor! It'd be even worse if I pushed all my weight on it to make sure it was on the ground at all times.
[ Annnd just to make a point, he (still laying sideways,) will lean all his weight on that side and push just a bit - no more than a foot or so, but just to produce a scraping sound. ]
Or I could do absolutely nothing at all! That does seem to wear on your nerves.
[ Oh no. So scary. The most frightening plots. ]
He's trying Expert Mode and can't even make it through the tutorial with him.
Vox hated him. Fucking hated him. Why couldn’t he just realize he had lost and act like it? Was that so hard?All he had to do was apologize and beg a little, and maybe Vox would forg-
His cable wrapped around one the bottom of chair before yanking it hard to the side, hoping that it would crash onto its side and Mr. Plots-Like-An-Asshole would be forced to lie on the ground, still tied. He didn’t know if it would work – his score at this point was only slightly ahead – but one could hope.
But how much did it really matter?]
You know, I think I see what the problem is now. [His voice was calm, controlled, something cultivated from years in front of a camera, in front of so many adoring eyes looking to him. He even managed a smile, bright and as fake as they come.] I went with a chair rather than what lost animals really belong in: a cage. I’m sure I can borrow one of Val’s and have it brought up. How does that sound?
He truly is.... On the plus side him failing is why alastor likes him
That did strike a nerve, but probably not in the way that Vox intended. Alastor had tolerated the little revenge tour. He tolerated being tied to a chair. He tolerated the being tied up, tossed around, tied to a chair, electrocuted, because all of those things were nothing more than what he himself would do to the other. He might not like it much, but it had always been a part of his relationship.
But his eyes narrowed now, and those ears, flopped down, pinned back. That grin stretched out as wide as it could. The chair did fall sideways as Vox was speaking, and it did leave him at an awkward angle, but that was long since forgotten.
Vox was playing a dangerous game, now. Alastor was treated as subhuman in life. He was an animal. He overcame all the odds, he reached heights that so many could only dream of despite it all, only to be treated as filthier than the dirt itself. It was what led him to such dire straits that he acted as he did. In Hell, he took down every single Overlord who dared to look down in him like that. In both lives, there was pleasure in it. Enjoyment. Fun. It was a high that no drug could give, because suddenly, he was in control. He was the one with power, he wasn't the one who was weak anymore, not the one who was hurting anymore, but the one receiving pleading and demands. It was a thrill that nothing could compare to, not in life, and not in Hell, not when his fellow Overlords had tried to look down on him in the same way.
His nails dig into his palms, and a trail of blood trickled out from below one fingertip. Vox was crossing a line here. ]
... Go ahead, then.
[ It's perfectly calm, though Vox, able to catch radio waves, might be able to catch the slight static of a dead signal that wafts off him. In its place is a venom, something so poisonous that it might melt metal, and that sharp glare is on Vox, as though he really does expect it now. That's quite uncharacteristic of the notorious radio demon who, despite his perchance for violence, was always quite collected. But his voice was equally careful and controlled, but in a different sort of way - something far more difficult to define. It matched his gaze - something old, and mean, but patient. It was what others might see in him, but not quite. It was just a little different, in some way that Vox would never know, having never seen it before. ]
Not visually, but in the air, the waves of sound, of shadows feeling different. Dangerous. Something had had side stepped in a way Vox hadn’t planned for, and he was left standing there, surprised.
No, not surprised. Unwilling. It was fun and satisfying to torture Alastor but not like…this. Whatever this thing was. His own lack of fear was unsettling, finding it replaced with some emotion that didn’t feel like anything of the sort. Respect? Maybe? But not that either.
Shit. Decades of the past came rushing at him, and it took everything in him to shove them down.]
Val’s busy today, so I can’t get ahold of him. You’re lucky.
[It was a weak lie, the screen flickering for a second before he reached down and grabbed the chair. Fuck, what was he doing? Why was he helping him back up? He needed to get out of this room, needed to get away from him, needed to his channels unscrambled. This wasn’t going to get him his goals, and at the end of the day, killing Alastor was what mattered as much as climbing that ladder.
[ His shoulders hunched as Vox approaches, and his glare only grew more fierce. There was no resistance as Vox lifted the chair back up, though, nor did Alastor offer any objection.
Once the chair was upright once more, he adjusted the seat to place himself back in a proper sitting position. The chair now missing a wheel made it trickier to keep his balance, and there was a bit of wobbling at first, but he would manage.
Lucky. It was said to save face, but Alastor just couldn't accept it. Vox had dug his fingers into an open wound, one that had never fully closed, and one that had already been ripped back open. ]
I may have agreed be your prisoner, but I am still the Radio Demon. Do not forget that.
[ His words were as cold as ice, a tone that he had never been much inclined to use with present company. He may have certain deer-like traits, but he was the radio. It was there in everything from the gold teeth and pupils that become dials to the microphone that acts as an extra limb, to the voice that carried that constant filter.
Believing that his point had been point made, Alastor started to defrost. He shook his head, and the sharp edge finally disappeared from his words (though the displeasure was still present) when he continued, ]
Go back to your work.
He's pouty about it, but also....he knows he Fucked Up.
[It still wasn’t fear that gripped Vox around his electric heart as he listened to that voice drop to tones that he hadn’t heard before, not even in the deepest of fights. He wasn’t afraid of Alastor, maybe one of the only foolish people in Hell who wasn’t.
No, this was an old feeling, a feeling of shame, or doing something wrong, one that he didn’t get by murdering and manipulating and controlling people. No, this was something that just tied to…to Alastor. He remembered something similar in a room full of people and booze and cigarette smoke (so much smoke), and now he had it here. This was a step he shouldn’t have taken, a miscalculation.
For someone so good at controlling people, this deer was never one he could figure out.
A flicker of something apologetic drifted through his eyes, watching him.]
That’s the whole reason I wanted you. [Shit, that sounded wrong. Overcorrect.] This. Prisoner thing.
[Nailed it.]
I’m not afraid of you.
[But Alastor had the situation now, controlled it as he dismissed Vox, as he gave him orders. Ugh. There wasn’t a way to get it back, not now, so he kicked the wall and headed back to his desk, leaving that closet door open. He didn’t want to work now, but there were pressing matters, and-
Dammit, this had all gone wrong.
He fell back in his chair and looked at the laptop screen, at the fifty-seven emails awaiting his attention.]
It won’t be long until I claim Heaven, and when I do, all this shit is going to change. Maybe you should think about how nice I should be.
He did, but it's okay...... His wife will forgive him.
[ Vox wasn't afraid of him, but he wasn't someone who looked down on him either. It was what allowed Alastor to treat him like an equal, and it was why no apology was needed in order for him to be forgiven. Despite being known for his violent acts, the radio demon was patient so long as he was treated with respect. And Vox, the only person he'd ever truly considered an equal and shared a mutual respect with (if in a way that only they could understand,) and who he'd known for so long, would always be shown more grace.
For him, flash of guilt and willingness to move on was enough. Alastor had gotten his point across.
The intensity of his gaze softened first, and by time Vox kicked the wall the tension had started to ease from his shoulders. He was still displeased, but just placated enough to scoot the chair forward and closer to the desk. He was no longer willing to move up to it, but he would move close enough to be able to study his expression. Based on that kick and the decided lack of work, he must have been sore about what happened.
That was fine. Alastor would entertain him until he felt like going back to it. ]
What does it matter to me? I'm already your prisoner. It's Heaven that should be worried.
[ He was still displeased, but not as much. His ears remained pinned back, but the levity had returned to his voice. ]
In fact, I'd say that I'm the one person that nothing would change for.
[It wasn’t over, wasn’t smoothed and neat like it didn’t happen, but it was…something. Better, maybe, but not fixed. That would take time, and...it always confused Vox why he should care if it was. But there were lines he didn’t cross, one that was so entangled in who they were, and he had unconsciously betrayed those spaces.
Death wasn’t off the table. This – whatever it had been – was.
He watched him roll-ish back over, and it was back to a banter that was easy to sink into, to lose himself into. It fit like a well-tailored suit, and he was eager to put it back on. Eyes flickered to Alastor, up to his ears, then back to his eyes. Heaven should be worried. It made his lips crack into a small smile.]
They won’t know until it’s too late, but if they did, yes, I think they would be.
[A full rebellion.. Weapons. Usurping of their power. A regime change of the highest order. And all with him at the helm.
And Alastor…Alastor like this. At least at the beginning.
Vox blinked, looking at him with a tilt of that television when Alastor spoke. Hm.]
Because you’re going to wind up dead either way? Yes, of course. Think of the ratings if I aired it; one of the rare Radio Demon’s television appearances.
Just a little bit, because he deserves it... Those ears are staying pinned back.
[ That was precisely it. Even if he entertained the idea of Vox succeeding in his conquest and fulfilling his promise of killing Alastor, he saw little point in worrying about it. He had countless guest stars on his radio show over the years, and he had been entertained every reaction that a person can give when faced with death. They would beg, plead, cry, bargain, threaten - none of which ever moved him.
They didn't matter to him all that much. They weren't what he was looking for. What he wanted was their screams, and he had always waited with such anticipation. His heart would race, his breath quicken in anticipation, and that first scream was like popping the cork on a wine bottle. It was always the start of his demon's banquet, a night colored red with blood and filled with agonized wails and moans, and the very thought of it made him shudder now. It had been too long since he last felt such a thrill. ]
If you ask me, a funeral should be a private affair.
[ There was still a wariness to his gaze, a slight tension of the shoulders, but he didn't otherwise complain about the mention of an audience for it. He had no right to. But the wine bottle would never be opened with him, not even as red wine spilled out of his body; it would need to be shattered open, because he could endure any amount of torture without screaming, and Vox was too direct to even try for that.
But, well - he already knew it. The man wouldn't try to kill him at all. He would fail at taking over Heaven. He would break their deal. But even if Alastor somehow miscalculated on all of that, he wouldn't harm him in any way that mattered. ]
But you could at least let me have one final broadcast. [ He shifted in his chair and tugged at his restraints, but not for any desire to free himself. Rather, Alastor was that sort of expressive person who always looked to speak with his hands. He was born for theater, but lived for radio. ] Less is more. You have to let your audience use their imagination at times like this.
[And that was the difference between them, wasn’t it? Where Alastor viewed the murders as an art form, Vox viewed it as a tool, something to clear the road between him and his goals. Obstructions were meant to be removed in a path, after all. It was just that sometimes, the removal process could be…messy. Bloody.
Fun.
Was it the murder that was fun or the victory itself? The single step closer to his divine right? Why couldn’t it be both? And really, he had enough work to get to in a day; there was no way he could fit a full torture session between his 2:15 Stakeholders Touchbase Meeting and his 3:00 Ratings Review.]
Is this your way of saying you want a closed casket? Because, spoiler warning: you might need one.
[Vox wasn’t Alastor, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy killing like him just this once? Hadn’t he earned it? Wasn’t there an irony in it? Or, shit, a poetic justice?
But, then again, who cared about justice in Hell?
There was a short laugh as Alastor was asked…asked for a final broadcast? Really? Really? Did- did he really think Vox was stupid enough to fall for that?
…Don’t answer that.]
Uh, no? Okay, for one: why would I give you the one place where you feel powerful? That’s not profitable for me. [Me, me, me….] And radio is inferior, outdated. Have you looked at people lately? They want to use less of their brains, not more! You need to drip feed them everything with shiny lights, bright colors, stupid jingles, and they thank you for it. The masses love televisions and screens and anything else I can cram in front of their glassy, stupid eyes.
Face it: radio lost that battle decades ago.
[The grin was proud as he swept his arms wide. Seems they both had a home for the dramatics.]
I could have given you podcasts and ASMR if you had taken my offer, but you-
[Were an asshole.]
-were a fool.
But will he go into the arms of his second wife...
[ He shifts his weight again, eyes briefly flicking as he does so to make sure he isn't leaning to one side as he shifts his weight forward, eyes narrowing and grin thinning out. He has seen the people, and that's what makes Alastor so astounding. Radio is dead, and it's not dead, because his broadcasts still reach. His broadcasts reach the other rings of Hell, and in them those ancient beings who have no reason to listen to a simple sinner.
As long as the Radio Demon is alive, so is radio. That is how strong his talent is. It's no different than Vox. They can't touch the other rings. They can't reach them. But they're seen and heard. Sinners are trapped, but entertainment knows no boundaries.
He cants his head at the words podcast and ASMR. He's not familiar with the latter, but former toggles some memory in him. Alastor isn't one to keep up with modern advancement. It's too much, and it's too overwhelming, and he found nothing but irritation when trying to understand Vox's newest head model once it started getting into technical semantics (and he's not a stupid man - but those specific metrics meant nothing t hat "sharper image" and other simple terms couldn't have expressed.) But he understands the gist of things. He keeps up with the important terms.
He cants his head. ]
If that's the case, then why did I pull your audience away the moment I started my broadcast? They can't use their brains, because entertainers these days have gotten lazy, they can only produce the most brainless, easily consumed material...
[ He shifts his feet back, soles skidding against the floor as he leans forward further still. Vox was a far more suave businessman, but Alastor always had a unique ability to captivate an audience - even now, his voice carried in a way that few others could. ]
You have forgotten how to use your imagination. Our audience is only awaiting the opportunity to do so.
[ Vox isn't wrong. Podcasts might have had the same appeal for him, perhaps even more, but no podcaster will ever have the same appeal that he did. He was a once in a century talent. An asshole, perhaps, but no fool. He concludes with, ]
It's not what makes me feel powerful. It's about what will entertain the audience. You have to scratch their brains. You have to make them beg for more. Odd bobbles and bright colors are only entertaining to toddlers. They'll leave you in an instant. But if you can give them a bit of wonder, they'll hang on your every word.
[ Isn't that why Vox had taken interest in him? ]
The nights are cold and the couch is lumpy. Jealous?
[The scowl on Vox’s face deepened the more Alastor waxed poetic. The cadence of his voice got on his nerves, but it wasn’t anything more than normal. Those petty gripes were long past just being annoying and more of just par for the course.
No, no, he was scowling because Alastor had a point.
Which was not to say he was right; he wasn’t. But his argument wasn’t without merit either. The stuff they turned out was often drivel, was basic and required the level of consciousness of a five-year-old imp. They needed to explain all their plots over and over again because the masses were so addicted to screens that they needed to have more than one going at any one time. They couldn’t put them down.
But attention split amongst multiple screens did mean a thinner thread holding them there, bound to this entertainment corporation. And if something that could promise them something more – not radio, radio was boring – they might shift to that.
Shit.
But it wasn’t like he was going to tell Alastor that.]
You think I didn’t already pump the masses full of what I wanted them to see? That I didn’t cater everything to them by making them completely loyal and addicted to my programming? [Vox snorted, sitting back in his chair as he stared across to his prisoner. He wished he could have done the same to Alastor.]
I give them villains to hate on “reality” television shows that get them talking and craving their downfall. I give them terrors to be afraid of on the nightly news so I can control when they feel safe enough to leave the house. I tell them what items to buy with every commercial that I pump into their malleable, mushy brains.
And you know what they do? Exactly what I expect them to.
[But Vox wasn’t like the masses. He had enough brain power to want more, to want wonder, to know what true wonder even was. There were stories out there that could tangle around a person and leave them obsessed and guessing and reflecting– and that wasn’t what his stuff was. He wasn’t a writer; he was an exec. He was a controller.
And that was what Alastor was good at. Dammit.]
They won’t leave. Everyone - [He looked pointedly at Alastor.] - is right where I need them to be.
He's happy with his nice, warm chair. Too bad a wheel broke off. Vox could've sat on his lap.
[ Alastor would be a fool to argue the amount of influence that Vox had over the public. The world changed quite a bit over the course of a century. The denizens of Hell were always filled to the brim with vice, but it did seem to him that one day they had stopped thinking altogether. Those who came in later were particularly difficult to connect with.
It was a fragile set up, but an effective one so long as no one found a way to undermine him. His partners would not bet he ones to do so, or at least not properly; he did quite like them, but they were no more intelligent than the rest of the public. He had the impression that they thought of it as something closer to a family business than a marriage of interests, and so blind loyalty was of more significance than anything constructive. If only it were intentional, he could at least think of it as clever.
As it was, he didn't, and instead he just found that they're the same. The pieces on the gameboard were all where all exactly where he wanted them to be. He would watch as Vox's empire collapsed and look to see who would fill the space. It won't be him. He was an entertainer and a person who wished to be able to live as he pleased and without worry; nothing more, nothing less. ]
Yes, you do have your captive audience.
[ Literal and figurative. He leaned back in the chair, adjusting his footing as he did so. His gaze remained on Vox. This was, at least, more comfortable territory. He rocked back in his chair. ]
You're right though. People who want something to be afraid of. People who want to see others fail. People who want someone to blame when things go wrong. No one really wants to take responsibility anymore, so having someone tell them what to do and who to fear is quite convenient.
[ He rocked back in his chair. ]
Though of course, you're the only one who they can blame if this gambit of yours stops being entertaining. [ And so he repeated, ] They'll abandon you at the drop of a dime.
[ Though as for Alastor himself, well - he's a bit different. He's always been quite capable of taking responsibility. And seventy years is a long time to hold interest in someone. ]
He still could if the balance is right. Hard to balance with this weird head though...
The dynamics were slightly different than before, decades of hurt (one on end, at least) had morphed things, altered it slightly, but at its core it was the same: two twisted people discussing hypotheticals and plotting using the thrall of entertainment. It was theory, it was interest, it was hope and flaws and all the general pieces before they would get into the drinks and start digging into the nitty-gritty, or sometimes the weeds depending on the path of the conversation. In some ways, it probably sounded more like two professors talking, musing.
Instead of…them. Time had changed so much, but apparently they could find their way back to this ground.
These weren’t conversations he could have with Val, with Velvette, not this deep. Surface level, plans, some numbers, but the back and forth, someone to challenge him….That wasn’t them. Not like this.
That had always been Alastor, until it wasn’t.
Vox narrowed his eyes before tapping his fingers together, pointed claws clinking sharply.] How could it “stop being entertaining”? It’s an underdog story that shows the protagonist’s victory against every odd and fighting for them. Or, at least, that’s what they think.
[They both knew it was always for himself.]
And because this is “for them”- [Yes, he used air quotes.] - they’re going to personally be invested in this. They won’t be able to look away because what if they miss an important update? What if they can’t be the first one to post about the latest victory? They have to be invested; their lives depend on it.
[He waved a hand loosely.] Face it, I’ve thought of everything. I am entertainment now; I’ve become what I control already. I can never be dropped, and it’s perfect.
You’re just pissy that you didn’t think of it first.
True. Move him to an armchair, then they can both sit comfortably, without the random spinning!
[ Now this is what they both excelled at. There was a reason that he had seen such potential in Vox. He was sharp. He was forward-thinking. He was sharp in a way that those of Hell were not, and seven decades hadn't seen his brain rot out of his ears, as was the case of so many others.
He leaned forward, and already he was able to shift his footing along with the motion to avoid wobbling more than a momentary lean. He planted his feet more firmly on the ground, and his grin sharpened. This was familiar territory. Comfortable. It wasn't the same, but it was, because all that hurt and those sharp cuts could never damage talent. ]
It may be for their sake, but it's your story. Once you fail, they'll lose any and all interest. In fact, they won't have ever known your story at all.
[ The world would never have any need for failures after all. Alastor canted his head. ]
But let's pretend that you succeed in this little gambit of yours. It still stops being entertaining. The audience doesn't wants a few paragraphs telling them of success, not a hundred years of meandering updates on how you ensure that no one can challenge the new status quo.
[ Because about a century was what he would expect. It was a short period of time for any power in the human world, much less here in Heaven and Hell where those living in it had an eternity to claim the throne. Alastor was being quite generous in limiting it to that in his acceptance of a complete victory.
He skid one foot back. His ears remained lowered for a moment longer before they finally lifted back up, tilting forward, because he was listening now.
Old habits die hard, and whatever old hurts there were, however much they wanted to, the pair of them could never really escape each other. Video and radio, still intertwined, still trading signals even seven decades later. ]
The average person hardly cares for the success of others. They care about themselves and their stories.
[ And that is what Alastor had understood best. He had told stories for them. He offered distraction. His shows pivoted seamlessly, from one thing to another, but his stories offered them a distraction from their own lives. They were written for an audience. They were what he wanted, in an escape from his then meaningless life. ]
[But what were slights and scars and offenses other than fuel for ambition? Certainly, they were a way to make sure he got what he wanted when he wouldn’t get it any other way, revenge with the ambrosia of power, ready and willing to drink it up with the blood of those would barred his path.
Hurt only made him hungrier, if history proved anything.]
I’m not failing.
[It was a small sentence than he didn’t need to interject with; Alastor was poking him, waiting for him to fall for the bait and he had. Didn’t matter. Maybe they could both ignore it
His look was flat (ha) as he let Alastor prattle on, going on about what would happen if (when) Vox did win. The hard part was that Alastor wasn’t necessarily wrong: repetition bred boredom, and boredom bred two things: apathy or restlessness. He needed the first but couldn’t guarantee it after hundreds of eons.]
It doesn’t matter after I’ve won; I don’t need them. [Which wasn’t true, but he either didn’t want to admit to Alastor or didn’t want to admit it to himself. Maybe a little of Column A and a little of Column V.] Or maybe I just manufacture another enemy every hundred years and just keep this train a-running.
[It couldn’t be that hard; he created sensationalized stories all the time! What was another several hundred?
But that, too, wasn’t what he wanted to know. His heel tapped across the floor, before he asked, low and annoyed:]
What would you do?
it's like a cat exposing their belly, it's worth the risk of a little love mauling
[ Vox readily taking the bait was well noted. He was as easy as ever, but for just a moment, Alastor was willing to set that aside. ]
I wouldn't do anything. I have no need for that sort of publicity.
[ Alastor didn't have that same desire to be fawned over and adored. His work was his passion, one that allowed him to both connect with others and bring them together, but that was about his talent. He only otherwise asked for the right amount of fear and respect, and for that he only needed power and discipline.
Still, after a short pause he offered an answer: ]
I would simply keep feeding them the promise of something better, ad infinitum. "Happiness" is something that should always be at the tips of ones fingertips, just within reach, but never able to be fully grasped.
[ With happiness being of that sort of lasting and secure sort where one needn't spend their time waiting for the rug to be ripped out from under them. That might lose its appeal at some point too, but it would take time. It was hard to say what would happen if a person traded Hell's torture for a paradise where everything was given freely, but his best guess would be that Sinners would just turn the place into a more colorful version of Hell. That greed and selfishness would remain firmly rooted in them.
Vox had always been adept at tapping into that - he was always searching for something more himself; something bigger, better, and brighter. It was the sort of lie that Vox could sell so well. He could hand people a bucket with a false bottom while promising that they could scoop out all the water from the ocean. ]
Let's be real: Vox is a little bit of a masochist.
[Publicity bred power, control. People were thirsty for the scraps they could glean and the spotlights were bright; it was preferable to being lost in the shadows and forgotten. Forgotten. A footnote in a book that no one reads.
Vox couldn’t live like that.
Hell, Vincent couldn’t live like that.]
That sounds exhausting. [And endless supply of happiness just out of reach, a constant line of promises that he would have to imagine and at least partially fulfill. Would it make them thirstier? Yes. Greed was a helluva drug. But…]
Starving people are more likely to turn desperate. [One claw ran along a discolored line in the wood of his desk, trailing it without thought, attention.] And when people turn desperate, they revolt against the one in charge.
[He had done it. Again. Again. Again. He wanted that happiness of a future he could control, of the money, power, fame…adoration. So much adoration, mesmerized eyes staring up at him as he promised a new future-
He took a deep breath, shoving that memory back.]
I will be a god, Alastor. I don’t need their happiness; I just need their obedience.
Edited 2026-01-30 01:23 (UTC)
Pain n' Pleasure but mostly pain... Our sadomasochists. Al probably grooms you after mauling though.
[ His grin widened as he canted his head. He would speak of the past no more, but he remembered it well. Vox had risen to power at a rapid rate. It hadn't matched his own, but it was as close as anyone had gotten. Alastor had been able to see that there was something special about him. There was greed. There was want. There was something that he needed, and in return there was something that he could give others.
But he wasn't wrong either. It was a balancing act that Alastor couldn't commit to. And so he decided to give Vox an out of a sort. He rolled his shoulders before he leaned back and shook his head. ]
Of course, you have no hope of getting anything from me, and obedience least of all.
[ That wasn't entirely true. Vox had his attention. He had kept Alastor's attention for a full seven decades, been given it at a moment's notice, and who else could claim that? But that wasn't something he was aware of, much less that he would admit to.
But he did think, for just a moment, about how quiet those seven years in which he was gone were. How empty the airwaves had been. ]
[One long claw dug that line in the desk a little deeper. ]
What could else would I need?
[But they both knew, even if he didn’t admit it. There wasn’t a show of bullshit with saying something like Your head on a pike or To see you choke on a microphone; this conversation had moved beyond that surface level hurts and insults. It felt close to being familiar, a slow dangerous dance around the elephants in the room.
He almost wished that Val or Velvette were here to break the moment up, to pull him back and give him an excuse to refocus. To be in the Now. But they were off working or partying or …something. Hopefully working; it wasn’t during overtime yet. ]
You’re not the one I want.
[Which was both a lie and not- fuck, not how he wanted it to come out. Shit. Shit. Shit.]
I don’t need you. [Slightly better.] You just need to be there when I show you what winning really looks like.
[ They both knew what it was that Vox needed, but it would remain unspoken. It was too close to the man's heart, it would be too much to say, and most of all Alastor knew that it wasn't for him to say. It wasn't needed. But he noted the groove drawn into the desk. He noted the effect that he had, and that alone was enough of a reminder of how easy it was for him to touch on it - how much he knew that no one else did.
Vox needed him, and that was better than want. But he was willing enough to relent. He could let Vox move back into more comfortable territory. ]
You need me.
[ He kicked one heel up, let it drop down, and then repeated the motion once more. There was no one who knew Vox like Alastor did. His partners could never compare. ]
You have no hope of winning, but even if you did... You would miss me too much if I was gone. 𝅘𝅥𝅮
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But Alastor was selective about when and how he behaved, and right now he was satisfied with his perfect victory over the other. He had managed to get quite the rise out of the other, one that was bordering on leading to property damage, and he had been removed from his watchful gaze. Now, Vox could take comfort in the silence that followed his suggestion being accepted - or rather, being forced into following up on his threat.
Not that he particularly enjoyed being locked in a closet. His ears laid flat back, and he did stare at the door for a few seconds. But it was only for a few seconds before he lifted them and fixed his too-thin smile, and he he rolled himself back enough to bump against the door .It was a gentle bump this time, quiet, and he followed by inching himself forward until he was at just the right distance to be able to lean back against it at a precarious angle. The chair that he was given was quite flexible, even being able to lay down at ninety degree angle. Thus, he resolved himself to stay just like this, so he could fall back and fall out of it. ]
Alastor is such a brat.
Alastor just had that way of getting under his skin, down through his cables like the electricity that flowed through them, and no matter how much time had passed, he couldn’t stop it. Vox walked back to his chair, dropping heavily into it and trying to keep the unwanted thoughts out of his head. He didn’t want to remember Before. He didn’t want to think about it aside from what it was: fuel to beat Alastor, to humiliate him just as ruthlessly as he himself had been.
But like a virus, they crept in: talks that felt embarrassingly easy and nervous on his end, plotting over drinks, cigarettes that he once-upon-a-time he didn’t mind sharing. A smile he didn’t despise seeing.
And that smile had turned to laughter, mocking and cruel and-
His claw hovered over the keyboard, frozen in thoughts and memories for a few moments too long before he heard the noise from the closet. What…what was he doing? Couldn’t he let Vox have one thing?]
If you are fucking up my suits, I’m going to let Velvette take you apart and stitch you back together again. [He didn’t move from his desk this time, but he did snake out one of his cables and let it cut through the air towards the door. If he didn’t have stuff in there, he might have just left him to do whatever was doing, but it was personal] (it was always personal). It curled around the knob and yanked it open.]
Being a brat truly is his thing. Vox wants to be a brat tamer so bad too.
Alastor sprung out from the closet like a sideways jack in the box. He was tilted at such an angle that the back of the chair's seat easily fell back, and he found himself laying flat on his back. His legs were still crossed, knees pointed toward the ceiling, and his head lolled back so he could watch Vox. There were a couple blinks, because he actually hadn't surprised it to be that quick. Quick, certainly, but not that quick.
The toothy grin thinned out, and though the smile remained, it would have been hard to describe his expression as anything other than flat. ]
Do you mind? [ He said in some mockery of indignation. It was too dramatic to pass as it, and the undertones of amusement were quite noticeable. But it was playful, too, quite different than how he tended to treat others. ] I'm trying to think. I'm concocting all sorts of plots just for your sake.
[ Can this chair go back further? He experimentally tried pushing back on it, and it could! Now he was tilted further downward and at an even more awkward angle. It was hardly a pose that anyone would associate with such a terrifying figure, but Vox may have been quite used to those little quirks that started to show through once he liked someone well enough. He was at one time quite close to the man, and over the years of strife and insults and disdain, he had only grown more comfortable around him alone.
But all that aside, he hadn't been doing anything. Leave him alone. ]
HE DOES! He'll fail at it, but he wants to be!
Six feet underground sounded nice.
Vox stared flatly (ha) at the other overlord, annoyed by the very existence of him at the moment. He got up from his desk and wondered if he should just put the lock on the chair so he couldn’t lean back in it anymore, but that would require him getting close. Was that part of his plans? Who knows.]
Do I mind? Yes! Yes, I mind. [His teeth ground against each other before he growled, a low rumble of anger.] Where did you learn to be a prisoner, anyway?
[Because there was distinctly less
apologiesfear and shame than he had hoped for. His eyes stared at Alastor’s, reading a book in another language, before he shook his head. Fuck it. His cable dipped in, grabbed one of the wheels from the chair and ripped it out. Enjoy a crooked, unbalanced chair.]Fine, I’ll bite. What plots for me?
Listen... I believe him (sort of.) He's just starting with Super Hell Nightmare Mode here.
Did he seem like the sort of person who'd ever learned to be prisoner? Though it was a bit of a facade. His life was nothing but careful acts and acquiescing.to those around him. But here in hell, there he had done no such thing, and least of all with Vox.
His body shook as the chair leaned to one side, unable to support its leg at one angle, and he found himself leaning in that direction. The smile didn't so much as twitch, and in fact returned to being a toothy grin. ]
Well, you see, I've thought of about a hundred new ways to annoy you while I'm here. After seventy years, I thought I had exhausted all options, but now I realize that there's no shortage of them! For example, I could have you pull out one of the wheels on his chair, and then it would make the most horrible sounds when it was moving across the floor! It'd be even worse if I pushed all my weight on it to make sure it was on the ground at all times.
[ Annnd just to make a point, he (still laying sideways,) will lean all his weight on that side and push just a bit - no more than a foot or so, but just to produce a scraping sound. ]
Or I could do absolutely nothing at all! That does seem to wear on your nerves.
[ Oh no. So scary. The most frightening plots. ]
He's trying Expert Mode and can't even make it through the tutorial with him.
Vox hated him. Fucking hated him. Why couldn’t he just realize he had lost and act like it? Was that so hard?All he had to do was apologize and beg a little, and maybe Vox would forg-
His cable wrapped around one the bottom of chair before yanking it hard to the side, hoping that it would crash onto its side and Mr. Plots-Like-An-Asshole would be forced to lie on the ground, still tied. He didn’t know if it would work – his score at this point was only slightly ahead – but one could hope.
But how much did it really matter?]
You know, I think I see what the problem is now. [His voice was calm, controlled, something cultivated from years in front of a camera, in front of so many adoring eyes looking to him. He even managed a smile, bright and as fake as they come.] I went with a chair rather than what lost animals really belong in: a cage. I’m sure I can borrow one of Val’s and have it brought up. How does that sound?
He truly is.... On the plus side him failing is why alastor likes him
That did strike a nerve, but probably not in the way that Vox intended. Alastor had tolerated the little revenge tour. He tolerated being tied to a chair. He tolerated the being tied up, tossed around, tied to a chair, electrocuted, because all of those things were nothing more than what he himself would do to the other. He might not like it much, but it had always been a part of his relationship.
But his eyes narrowed now, and those ears, flopped down, pinned back. That grin stretched out as wide as it could. The chair did fall sideways as Vox was speaking, and it did leave him at an awkward angle, but that was long since forgotten.
Vox was playing a dangerous game, now. Alastor was treated as subhuman in life. He was an animal. He overcame all the odds, he reached heights that so many could only dream of despite it all, only to be treated as filthier than the dirt itself. It was what led him to such dire straits that he acted as he did. In Hell, he took down every single Overlord who dared to look down in him like that. In both lives, there was pleasure in it. Enjoyment. Fun. It was a high that no drug could give, because suddenly, he was in control. He was the one with power, he wasn't the one who was weak anymore, not the one who was hurting anymore, but the one receiving pleading and demands. It was a thrill that nothing could compare to, not in life, and not in Hell, not when his fellow Overlords had tried to look down on him in the same way.
His nails dig into his palms, and a trail of blood trickled out from below one fingertip. Vox was crossing a line here. ]
... Go ahead, then.
[ It's perfectly calm, though Vox, able to catch radio waves, might be able to catch the slight static of a dead signal that wafts off him. In its place is a venom, something so poisonous that it might melt metal, and that sharp glare is on Vox, as though he really does expect it now. That's quite uncharacteristic of the notorious radio demon who, despite his perchance for violence, was always quite collected. But his voice was equally careful and controlled, but in a different sort of way - something far more difficult to define. It matched his gaze - something old, and mean, but patient. It was what others might see in him, but not quite. It was just a little different, in some way that Vox would never know, having never seen it before. ]
At least he has his priorities in order.
Not visually, but in the air, the waves of sound, of shadows feeling different. Dangerous. Something had had side stepped in a way Vox hadn’t planned for, and he was left standing there, surprised.
No, not surprised. Unwilling. It was fun and satisfying to torture Alastor but not like…this. Whatever this thing was. His own lack of fear was unsettling, finding it replaced with some emotion that didn’t feel like anything of the sort. Respect? Maybe? But not that either.
Shit. Decades of the past came rushing at him, and it took everything in him to shove them down.]
Val’s busy today, so I can’t get ahold of him. You’re lucky.
[It was a weak lie, the screen flickering for a second before he reached down and grabbed the chair. Fuck, what was he doing? Why was he helping him back up? He needed to get out of this room, needed to get away from him, needed to his channels unscrambled. This wasn’t going to get him his goals, and at the end of the day, killing Alastor was what mattered as much as climbing that ladder.
So if he was pissy, why did it matter?
…
Because this way just did.]
Just let me work.
This has "sleeping on the couch tonight" energy.
Once the chair was upright once more, he adjusted the seat to place himself back in a proper sitting position. The chair now missing a wheel made it trickier to keep his balance, and there was a bit of wobbling at first, but he would manage.
Lucky. It was said to save face, but Alastor just couldn't accept it. Vox had dug his fingers into an open wound, one that had never fully closed, and one that had already been ripped back open. ]
I may have agreed be your prisoner, but I am still the Radio Demon. Do not forget that.
[ His words were as cold as ice, a tone that he had never been much inclined to use with present company. He may have certain deer-like traits, but he was the radio. It was there in everything from the gold teeth and pupils that become dials to the microphone that acts as an extra limb, to the voice that carried that constant filter.
Believing that his point had been point made, Alastor started to defrost. He shook his head, and the sharp edge finally disappeared from his words (though the displeasure was still present) when he continued, ]
Go back to your work.
He's pouty about it, but also....he knows he Fucked Up.
No, this was an old feeling, a feeling of shame, or doing something wrong, one that he didn’t get by murdering and manipulating and controlling people. No, this was something that just tied to…to Alastor. He remembered something similar in a room full of people and booze and cigarette smoke (so much smoke), and now he had it here. This was a step he shouldn’t have taken, a miscalculation.
For someone so good at controlling people, this deer was never one he could figure out.
A flicker of something apologetic drifted through his eyes, watching him.]
That’s the whole reason I wanted you. [Shit, that sounded wrong. Overcorrect.] This. Prisoner thing.
[Nailed it.]
I’m not afraid of you.
[But Alastor had the situation now, controlled it as he dismissed Vox, as he gave him orders. Ugh. There wasn’t a way to get it back, not now, so he kicked the wall and headed back to his desk, leaving that closet door open. He didn’t want to work now, but there were pressing matters, and-
Dammit, this had all gone wrong.
He fell back in his chair and looked at the laptop screen, at the fifty-seven emails awaiting his attention.]
It won’t be long until I claim Heaven, and when I do, all this shit is going to change. Maybe you should think about how nice I should be.
He did, but it's okay...... His wife will forgive him.
For him, flash of guilt and willingness to move on was enough. Alastor had gotten his point across.
The intensity of his gaze softened first, and by time Vox kicked the wall the tension had started to ease from his shoulders. He was still displeased, but just placated enough to scoot the chair forward and closer to the desk. He was no longer willing to move up to it, but he would move close enough to be able to study his expression. Based on that kick and the decided lack of work, he must have been sore about what happened.
That was fine. Alastor would entertain him until he felt like going back to it. ]
What does it matter to me? I'm already your prisoner. It's Heaven that should be worried.
[ He was still displeased, but not as much. His ears remained pinned back, but the levity had returned to his voice. ]
In fact, I'd say that I'm the one person that nothing would change for.
[ Or at least not in the same way. ]
Buuuuut make him suffer a little first.
Death wasn’t off the table. This – whatever it had been – was.
He watched him roll-ish back over, and it was back to a banter that was easy to sink into, to lose himself into. It fit like a well-tailored suit, and he was eager to put it back on. Eyes flickered to Alastor, up to his ears, then back to his eyes. Heaven should be worried. It made his lips crack into a small smile.]
They won’t know until it’s too late, but if they did, yes, I think they would be.
[A full rebellion.. Weapons. Usurping of their power. A regime change of the highest order. And all with him at the helm.
And Alastor…Alastor like this. At least at the beginning.
Vox blinked, looking at him with a tilt of that television when Alastor spoke. Hm.]
Because you’re going to wind up dead either way? Yes, of course. Think of the ratings if I aired it; one of the rare Radio Demon’s television appearances.
Just a little bit, because he deserves it... Those ears are staying pinned back.
They didn't matter to him all that much. They weren't what he was looking for. What he wanted was their screams, and he had always waited with such anticipation. His heart would race, his breath quicken in anticipation, and that first scream was like popping the cork on a wine bottle. It was always the start of his demon's banquet, a night colored red with blood and filled with agonized wails and moans, and the very thought of it made him shudder now. It had been too long since he last felt such a thrill. ]
If you ask me, a funeral should be a private affair.
[ There was still a wariness to his gaze, a slight tension of the shoulders, but he didn't otherwise complain about the mention of an audience for it. He had no right to. But the wine bottle would never be opened with him, not even as red wine spilled out of his body; it would need to be shattered open, because he could endure any amount of torture without screaming, and Vox was too direct to even try for that.
But, well - he already knew it. The man wouldn't try to kill him at all. He would fail at taking over Heaven. He would break their deal. But even if Alastor somehow miscalculated on all of that, he wouldn't harm him in any way that mattered. ]
But you could at least let me have one final broadcast. [ He shifted in his chair and tugged at his restraints, but not for any desire to free himself. Rather, Alastor was that sort of expressive person who always looked to speak with his hands. He was born for theater, but lived for radio. ] Less is more. You have to let your audience use their imagination at times like this.
It's fiiiiine. He'll pout where he can't be seen.
Fun.
Was it the murder that was fun or the victory itself? The single step closer to his divine right? Why couldn’t it be both? And really, he had enough work to get to in a day; there was no way he could fit a full torture session between his 2:15 Stakeholders Touchbase Meeting and his 3:00 Ratings Review.]
Is this your way of saying you want a closed casket? Because, spoiler warning: you might need one.
[Vox wasn’t Alastor, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy killing like him just this once? Hadn’t he earned it? Wasn’t there an irony in it? Or, shit, a poetic justice?
But, then again, who cared about justice in Hell?
There was a short laugh as Alastor was asked…asked for a final broadcast? Really? Really? Did- did he really think Vox was stupid enough to fall for that?
…Don’t answer that.]
Uh, no? Okay, for one: why would I give you the one place where you feel powerful? That’s not profitable for me. [Me, me, me….] And radio is inferior, outdated. Have you looked at people lately? They want to use less of their brains, not more! You need to drip feed them everything with shiny lights, bright colors, stupid jingles, and they thank you for it. The masses love televisions and screens and anything else I can cram in front of their glassy, stupid eyes.
Face it: radio lost that battle decades ago.
[The grin was proud as he swept his arms wide. Seems they both had a home for the dramatics.]
I could have given you podcasts and ASMR if you had taken my offer, but you-
[Were an asshole.]
-were a fool.
But will he go into the arms of his second wife...
As long as the Radio Demon is alive, so is radio. That is how strong his talent is. It's no different than Vox. They can't touch the other rings. They can't reach them. But they're seen and heard. Sinners are trapped, but entertainment knows no boundaries.
He cants his head at the words podcast and ASMR. He's not familiar with the latter, but former toggles some memory in him. Alastor isn't one to keep up with modern advancement. It's too much, and it's too overwhelming, and he found nothing but irritation when trying to understand Vox's newest head model once it started getting into technical semantics (and he's not a stupid man - but those specific metrics meant nothing t hat "sharper image" and other simple terms couldn't have expressed.) But he understands the gist of things. He keeps up with the important terms.
He cants his head. ]
If that's the case, then why did I pull your audience away the moment I started my broadcast? They can't use their brains, because entertainers these days have gotten lazy, they can only produce the most brainless, easily consumed material...
[ He shifts his feet back, soles skidding against the floor as he leans forward further still. Vox was a far more suave businessman, but Alastor always had a unique ability to captivate an audience - even now, his voice carried in a way that few others could. ]
You have forgotten how to use your imagination. Our audience is only awaiting the opportunity to do so.
[ Vox isn't wrong. Podcasts might have had the same appeal for him, perhaps even more, but no podcaster will ever have the same appeal that he did. He was a once in a century talent. An asshole, perhaps, but no fool. He concludes with, ]
It's not what makes me feel powerful. It's about what will entertain the audience. You have to scratch their brains. You have to make them beg for more. Odd bobbles and bright colors are only entertaining to toddlers. They'll leave you in an instant. But if you can give them a bit of wonder, they'll hang on your every word.
[ Isn't that why Vox had taken interest in him? ]
The nights are cold and the couch is lumpy. Jealous?
No, no, he was scowling because Alastor had a point.
Which was not to say he was right; he wasn’t. But his argument wasn’t without merit either. The stuff they turned out was often drivel, was basic and required the level of consciousness of a five-year-old imp. They needed to explain all their plots over and over again because the masses were so addicted to screens that they needed to have more than one going at any one time. They couldn’t put them down.
But attention split amongst multiple screens did mean a thinner thread holding them there, bound to this entertainment corporation. And if something that could promise them something more – not radio, radio was boring – they might shift to that.
Shit.
But it wasn’t like he was going to tell Alastor that.]
You think I didn’t already pump the masses full of what I wanted them to see? That I didn’t cater everything to them by making them completely loyal and addicted to my programming? [Vox snorted, sitting back in his chair as he stared across to his prisoner. He wished he could have done the same to Alastor.]
I give them villains to hate on “reality” television shows that get them talking and craving their downfall. I give them terrors to be afraid of on the nightly news so I can control when they feel safe enough to leave the house. I tell them what items to buy with every commercial that I pump into their malleable, mushy brains.
And you know what they do? Exactly what I expect them to.
[But Vox wasn’t like the masses. He had enough brain power to want more, to want wonder, to know what true wonder even was. There were stories out there that could tangle around a person and leave them obsessed and guessing and reflecting– and that wasn’t what his stuff was. He wasn’t a writer; he was an exec. He was a controller.
And that was what Alastor was good at. Dammit.]
They won’t leave. Everyone - [He looked pointedly at Alastor.] - is right where I need them to be.
He's happy with his nice, warm chair. Too bad a wheel broke off. Vox could've sat on his lap.
It was a fragile set up, but an effective one so long as no one found a way to undermine him. His partners would not bet he ones to do so, or at least not properly; he did quite like them, but they were no more intelligent than the rest of the public. He had the impression that they thought of it as something closer to a family business than a marriage of interests, and so blind loyalty was of more significance than anything constructive. If only it were intentional, he could at least think of it as clever.
As it was, he didn't, and instead he just found that they're the same. The pieces on the gameboard were all where all exactly where he wanted them to be. He would watch as Vox's empire collapsed and look to see who would fill the space. It won't be him. He was an entertainer and a person who wished to be able to live as he pleased and without worry; nothing more, nothing less. ]
Yes, you do have your captive audience.
[ Literal and figurative. He leaned back in the chair, adjusting his footing as he did so. His gaze remained on Vox. This was, at least, more comfortable territory. He rocked back in his chair. ]
You're right though. People who want something to be afraid of. People who want to see others fail. People who want someone to blame when things go wrong. No one really wants to take responsibility anymore, so having someone tell them what to do and who to fear is quite convenient.
[ He rocked back in his chair. ]
Though of course, you're the only one who they can blame if this gambit of yours stops being entertaining. [ And so he repeated, ] They'll abandon you at the drop of a dime.
[ Though as for Alastor himself, well - he's a bit different. He's always been quite capable of taking responsibility. And seventy years is a long time to hold interest in someone. ]
He still could if the balance is right. Hard to balance with this weird head though...
The dynamics were slightly different than before, decades of hurt (one on end, at least) had morphed things, altered it slightly, but at its core it was the same: two twisted people discussing hypotheticals and plotting using the thrall of entertainment. It was theory, it was interest, it was hope and flaws and all the general pieces before they would get into the drinks and start digging into the nitty-gritty, or sometimes the weeds depending on the path of the conversation. In some ways, it probably sounded more like two professors talking, musing.
Instead of…them. Time had changed so much, but apparently they could find their way back to this ground.
These weren’t conversations he could have with Val, with Velvette, not this deep. Surface level, plans, some numbers, but the back and forth, someone to challenge him….That wasn’t them. Not like this.
That had always been Alastor, until it wasn’t.
Vox narrowed his eyes before tapping his fingers together, pointed claws clinking sharply.] How could it “stop being entertaining”? It’s an underdog story that shows the protagonist’s victory against every odd and fighting for them. Or, at least, that’s what they think.
[They both knew it was always for himself.]
And because this is “for them”- [Yes, he used air quotes.] - they’re going to personally be invested in this. They won’t be able to look away because what if they miss an important update? What if they can’t be the first one to post about the latest victory? They have to be invested; their lives depend on it.
[He waved a hand loosely.] Face it, I’ve thought of everything. I am entertainment now; I’ve become what I control already. I can never be dropped, and it’s perfect.
You’re just pissy that you didn’t think of it first.
True. Move him to an armchair, then they can both sit comfortably, without the random spinning!
He leaned forward, and already he was able to shift his footing along with the motion to avoid wobbling more than a momentary lean. He planted his feet more firmly on the ground, and his grin sharpened. This was familiar territory. Comfortable. It wasn't the same, but it was, because all that hurt and those sharp cuts could never damage talent. ]
It may be for their sake, but it's your story. Once you fail, they'll lose any and all interest. In fact, they won't have ever known your story at all.
[ The world would never have any need for failures after all. Alastor canted his head. ]
But let's pretend that you succeed in this little gambit of yours. It still stops being entertaining. The audience doesn't wants a few paragraphs telling them of success, not a hundred years of meandering updates on how you ensure that no one can challenge the new status quo.
[ Because about a century was what he would expect. It was a short period of time for any power in the human world, much less here in Heaven and Hell where those living in it had an eternity to claim the throne. Alastor was being quite generous in limiting it to that in his acceptance of a complete victory.
He skid one foot back. His ears remained lowered for a moment longer before they finally lifted back up, tilting forward, because he was listening now.
Old habits die hard, and whatever old hurts there were, however much they wanted to, the pair of them could never really escape each other. Video and radio, still intertwined, still trading signals even seven decades later. ]
The average person hardly cares for the success of others. They care about themselves and their stories.
[ And that is what Alastor had understood best. He had told stories for them. He offered distraction. His shows pivoted seamlessly, from one thing to another, but his stories offered them a distraction from their own lives. They were written for an audience. They were what he wanted, in an escape from his then meaningless life. ]
Sounds like a trap!
Hurt only made him hungrier, if history proved anything.]
I’m not failing.
[It was a small sentence than he didn’t need to interject with; Alastor was poking him, waiting for him to fall for the bait and he had. Didn’t matter. Maybe they could both ignore it
His look was flat (ha) as he let Alastor prattle on, going on about what would happen if (when) Vox did win. The hard part was that Alastor wasn’t necessarily wrong: repetition bred boredom, and boredom bred two things: apathy or restlessness. He needed the first but couldn’t guarantee it after hundreds of eons.]
It doesn’t matter after I’ve won; I don’t need them. [Which wasn’t true, but he either didn’t want to admit to Alastor or didn’t want to admit it to himself. Maybe a little of Column A and a little of Column V.] Or maybe I just manufacture another enemy every hundred years and just keep this train a-running.
[It couldn’t be that hard; he created sensationalized stories all the time! What was another several hundred?
But that, too, wasn’t what he wanted to know. His heel tapped across the floor, before he asked, low and annoyed:]
What would you do?
it's like a cat exposing their belly, it's worth the risk of a little love mauling
I wouldn't do anything. I have no need for that sort of publicity.
[ Alastor didn't have that same desire to be fawned over and adored. His work was his passion, one that allowed him to both connect with others and bring them together, but that was about his talent. He only otherwise asked for the right amount of fear and respect, and for that he only needed power and discipline.
Still, after a short pause he offered an answer: ]
I would simply keep feeding them the promise of something better, ad infinitum. "Happiness" is something that should always be at the tips of ones fingertips, just within reach, but never able to be fully grasped.
[ With happiness being of that sort of lasting and secure sort where one needn't spend their time waiting for the rug to be ripped out from under them. That might lose its appeal at some point too, but it would take time. It was hard to say what would happen if a person traded Hell's torture for a paradise where everything was given freely, but his best guess would be that Sinners would just turn the place into a more colorful version of Hell. That greed and selfishness would remain firmly rooted in them.
Vox had always been adept at tapping into that - he was always searching for something more himself; something bigger, better, and brighter. It was the sort of lie that Vox could sell so well. He could hand people a bucket with a false bottom while promising that they could scoop out all the water from the ocean. ]
Let's be real: Vox is a little bit of a masochist.
Vox couldn’t live like that.
Hell, Vincent couldn’t live like that.]
That sounds exhausting. [And endless supply of happiness just out of reach, a constant line of promises that he would have to imagine and at least partially fulfill. Would it make them thirstier? Yes. Greed was a helluva drug. But…]
Starving people are more likely to turn desperate. [One claw ran along a discolored line in the wood of his desk, trailing it without thought, attention.] And when people turn desperate, they revolt against the one in charge.
[He had done it. Again. Again. Again. He wanted that happiness of a future he could control, of the money, power, fame…adoration. So much adoration, mesmerized eyes staring up at him as he promised a new future-
He took a deep breath, shoving that memory back.]
I will be a god, Alastor. I don’t need their happiness; I just need their obedience.
Pain n' Pleasure but mostly pain... Our sadomasochists. Al probably grooms you after mauling though.
[ His grin widened as he canted his head. He would speak of the past no more, but he remembered it well. Vox had risen to power at a rapid rate. It hadn't matched his own, but it was as close as anyone had gotten. Alastor had been able to see that there was something special about him. There was greed. There was want. There was something that he needed, and in return there was something that he could give others.
But he wasn't wrong either. It was a balancing act that Alastor couldn't commit to. And so he decided to give Vox an out of a sort. He rolled his shoulders before he leaned back and shook his head. ]
Of course, you have no hope of getting anything from me, and obedience least of all.
[ That wasn't entirely true. Vox had his attention. He had kept Alastor's attention for a full seven decades, been given it at a moment's notice, and who else could claim that? But that wasn't something he was aware of, much less that he would admit to.
But he did think, for just a moment, about how quiet those seven years in which he was gone were. How empty the airwaves had been. ]
Awww, see? He does care.
What could else would I need?
[But they both knew, even if he didn’t admit it. There wasn’t a show of bullshit with saying something like Your head on a pike or To see you choke on a microphone; this conversation had moved beyond that surface level hurts and insults. It felt close to being familiar, a slow dangerous dance around the elephants in the room.
He almost wished that Val or Velvette were here to break the moment up, to pull him back and give him an excuse to refocus. To be in the Now. But they were off working or partying or …something. Hopefully working; it wasn’t during overtime yet. ]
You’re not the one I want.
[Which was both a lie and not- fuck, not how he wanted it to come out. Shit. Shit. Shit.]
I don’t need you. [Slightly better.] You just need to be there when I show you what winning really looks like.
He does, you have a kitty and a puppy right here.
Vox needed him, and that was better than want. But he was willing enough to relent. He could let Vox move back into more comfortable territory. ]
You need me.
[ He kicked one heel up, let it drop down, and then repeated the motion once more. There was no one who knew Vox like Alastor did. His partners could never compare. ]
You have no hope of winning, but even if you did... You would miss me too much if I was gone. 𝅘𝅥𝅮
LOL I can't help but think of the fizzie Kitty.
STOP that's it... It's him, sort of. I've raised feral kittens so that's my characterization basis.
OH I can DEFINITELY see that.
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You saw nothing of my wrong account. :P
Shhhh... There was no wrong account.
♥
this tag is so cursed, i'm sorry
It's peeeeerfection! *chef's kiss*
They are truly just so sick in the head.
Completely. I love them.
Same. They're freaks, but they're our freaks.
*smooshes them together*
NOW KISS...
♥♥♥♥
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Hey, Al, look. You broke him.
But can I break him harder?
The answer is always "yes".
oh ariana we're really in it now
*leans against the poster*
does this give him more or less motivation to take over heaven
Too early to tell. Depends on how bad he fucks it up LOL
He has a chance, but if he fumbles it, he has to take over heaven to unlock the R18+ scene
Look, he fumbles SO MUCH.
He does, but I get it on this one... If I had this man in front of me, I would fumble too.
Guilty as charged.
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This man is sobbing on the inside.
Ohh, Vox, honey... Complicated and sad and so very stupid.
It's a wonder that Al puts up with him.
Codependency is a Hell of a drug.
These two fools. Also, sorry about Vox's bitchy temper tantrum.
It's fine, is it really Radiostatic if somebody isn't making an ass of themselves?
You're definitely not wrong!
lbr Alastor is being pissy and petty too, just in the opposite way.
Giving him the silent treatment is weirdly effective.
He needs his wife's attention to live... :( cries we can probably wrap here tho
Just one last one, first!
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