Chapter Text
Vox felt it the moment the foundation of his empire began to crumble.
The screens that once bent to his will flickered; the digital static he commanded like a god now stung his ears like taunting laughter. Every signal, every broadcast, every thread of power he’d woven into Hell’s infrastructure began unraveling at the seams
.
And worst of all, every pair of eyes in Hell had finally turned on him.
The Overlords descended first, a storm of rage and vindication. Even the lesser demons below rose in furious waves, the collective wrath of Hell roaring like a collapsing dam. Vox stumbled backward, sparks dancing from the cracks in his shell as the digital neon of his body glitched violently.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
He had planned everything. Calculated everything.
He built himself up from nothing, no ancient magic, no gifts from some sadistic higher demon. He clawed and wired his way to the top. He shaped the digital age of Hell with his own damn hands.
He was a king.
A god.
And yet…
There he stood. Alastor watched with cold, pristine disgust.
The Radio Demon’s smile never changed, but there was nothing kind about it. No humored curl of the lip. No fond mischief. No warmth. Only ice, thin, sharp, lethal.
Vox felt something inside him rupture worse than any shattered circuit.
“Why…” he choked as another blast of hellfire seared across his side, sending him stumbling to his knees. “Why do you look at me like that!?”
Alastor didn’t answer.
He only watched.
Memories, unwanted, unbidden, surged like static shocks behind Vox’s eyes.
A different smile, a softer voice. Eyes that once lingered on him with interest… maybe curiosity… maybe something gentler. Something that could’ve been more.
It used to be different.
Didn’t it?
“You— you once looked at me with tenderness.” His voice cracked through synthetic distortion. He reached out a shaking, glitching hand toward the Radio Demon, almost as if touching him could bring back a truth that maybe existed only in Vox’s desperate, starving heart. “Why? Alastor, why can’t I have those eyes again?”
A blast.
Another blast hit him.
Then another.
The Overlords closed in, Velvette’s blows full of betrayed fury, Valentino’s strikes venomous with long-boiling resentment, and countless others joining the assault. They tore pieces from him, physical, digital, emotional, mercilessly.
His vision pixelated, tearing apart into digital shards.
He hadn’t settled the score.
He hadn’t even forced Alastor to acknowledge him, to admit he had the right to stand beside him, as an equal, as someone who mattered, someone worth more than ridicule.
He did everything on his own.
No shortcuts, no handouts.
He built himself into power.
He built his own empire, for fucks sake!
Sure he asked favors to others, but, who doesn't? In a world of dogs eats dogs? Asking for a favor in return for something is not a taboo! So…
Didn’t he deserve something?
Didn’t he deserve him?
As the final blow approached, an Overlord’s fist crackling with infernal energy ready to crush his core, Vox forced his mind through the pain. He clung to one thought, one want, one desire, one bone-deep hunger that refused to die.
Give me one more chance.
Just one.
One to make things right, to prove himself.
To fix that one mistake that turned warmth into disdain. Make Alastor look at him, truly look at him, even once, no, just one more time.
He deserved it.
He deserved him.
Just one more chance!
Everything exploded into black.
A cold, swallowing darkness.
Silent at first, then warping into a distorted hum, then into—
Voices.
Real voices.
“—ncent. Vincent Whittman, sir?”
Vox’s eyes snapped open.
He expected brimstone skies.
He expected hellfire.
He expected static and ruined circuitry.
He expected void and nothingness swallowed by hell.
Instead, he saw… a human face.
A young man wearing glasses, holding a clipboard and a tablet, dressed in warm earth-toned office clothes. His expression was calm, professional, and wonderfully, impossibly alive.
Vox blinked.
“…What?” he rasped. His voice: no static, no distortion. Just Humanly.
The man smiled politely. “Sir, you’re airing in forty minutes. Please be on standby. Your new interviews are scheduled after the show. And you have a meeting with a radio host from New Orleans later this afternoon.”
Vox shot upright on the couch he’d apparently been resting on. His fingers grabbed at his own arms, his throat, his face—
Smooth skin, warm flesh.
Nothing sharp, no glowing screens embedded in his body.
No hum of power beneath his skin.
He was human.
He was human again!
A wild, breathless laugh spilled from his throat. Vox pinched himself, hard. Pain shot up his arm and he winced, then grinned, too wide.
“Yes… yes,” he whispered, manic heat curling through his chest. “It worked…”
He wasn’t dead, his wish, whatever force listened to it, actually granted it.
He was back on earth, alive. He was breathing, he was human.
A fresh start?
A new life entirely under his control?
The hunger in him crackled with thrilling, electric joy.
No hell, overlords and most importantly, no Alastor looming over him, judging him, mocking him with smug smile.
Now he had time. Resources. Influence.
He could do things differently, he could shape a new path. A new way to rule the airwaves. A new playground.
He could fix everything.
Then…
“Radio host in New Orleans?” he repeated slowly, almost too calmly.
His secretary nodded, checking his notes. “Yes, sir. Very prominent in the region, excellent ratings. You’re scheduled for a collaboration segment.”
Vox stopped breathing for a moment.
No…
It couldn’t be.
Not this soon.
Not this perfectly aligned.
Is God favoring him or cursing him?
The universe, whatever ruled fate, was laughing.
For giving him exactly what he asked for.
Or maybe this is a test.
“Al…” he breathed barely loud enough to hear.
A smile, sharp, ecstatic, dangerously unhinged, curled across his newly, no, former human lips.
This time, this life, Alastor wouldn’t slip away.
This time, Vox had a head start. His memories of hell, with his regained human identity, with his influence.
He has a reason to be near him, near his place in the world Alastor is walking among.
And now…
Now he was coming to him.
“Alastor…” Vox whispered, manic delight trembling in his voice. “This time, you won’t get away.”
He stood, straightened his human clothes, and exhaled as if savoring the oxygen itself.
One more chance. A whole world to reshape.
And the Radio Demon, now a radio host, waiting unknowingly for him in New Orleans.
Vox smirked, eyes gleaming.
Round two for Vincent.