Chapter Text
Clouds of dark burgundy laid low over Pentagram City, threatening to spill their acidic contents all day. Rumblings of thunder had begun over an hour ago, which had truly emptied out the streets of anyone with a proper home to return to, or those with enough money to wait the weather out in whatever establishments remained open.
Vox should have stayed at the bar he had been at, it wasn't as if he didn't have the bucks on him to patronise the hours the storm was bound to last, but he had thought he would have the time to return back to his apartment. He shouldn't have even risked going out today in the first place, but he had a prior arrangement to meet Alastor at that particular bar.
One that was well hidden behind a tailor shop. It took walking inside and replying to the kipper's ‘Can I help you with anything?’ with ‘Yes, but I don't intend to stay out late’, then finding himself being escorted to the very back of the shop, through a false rack of fabric bolts, down a positively tiny rickety spiral staircase that was bracketed by wooden boards to keep from being seen until he reached the next platform down. And then he was crossing through a coat closet that opened up into a surprisingly large, lamp lit bar. It even had space for a dance floor in the middle, a small stage sat behind it where a live band played, and a few two-seater tables placed along the very back wall.
A large vintage sign hung behind the bar reading ‘‘Just Me & My Radio’ Secret Sips’. On a shelf below it sat a well-tended cathedral tabletop radio, very akin to those Alastor favoured.
Vox’s expression flattened, a hint of amusement in his digital features. Of fucking course Alastor would invite him to a place like this. Not that he didn't find the ambiance enjoyable and the fact this was apparently a secret place Alastor had shared with him, even though he had taken a liking to the more colourful bars that had started popping up in the west side of town.
Taking up a seat at the bar proper, Vox ordered a drink from the snazzily dressed bartender whilst he waited for Alastor to arrive. The fashionably late bastard.
After a little over an hour, Vox was beginning to wonder if Alastor had been held up. It wouldn't be the first time someone had decided to challenge the Radio Demon when he was out in public, especially in the unclaimed territory that Alastor preferred and that they frequented together. So Vox wasn't worried, not precisely. Alastor had proven many, many times before that he could handle himself.
It was nearing another sixty minutes before he felt someone tap him on the arm, which had Vox turning with a slight frown. He knew it wouldn't be Alastor. And he was right. It was a short, fluffy demon of a black and grey fur and rounded ears. The quiet swoosh of a large monochromatically ringed tail behind the sinner was telling. A raccoon dispositioned demon, Vox guessed.Maybe a lemur? Not that it was important. What the other wanted with him was though.
“Can I help you?” Vox asked in a manner that told anyone listening that it wasn't a genuine offer.
“Uh, no, sir,” The furred sinner stuttered slightly in his speech, holding up a muted coloured envelope that was sealed with red impressed wax and equally blood red ribbon, “I was told to deliver this to a demon with a modern television for a head by the name Vox who may be in this establishment. Are you called Vox?”
“I am,” Vox replied, holding out his hand for the letter, but the demon didn't hand it over. Instead glancing at the bartender, who Vox saw nod, and then the messenger placed the envelope in Vox’s hand.
To which Vox turned away and slipped a claw beneath the wax to break it. Finding out the letter was also a sealed in a gummed envelope was a surprise, but he supposed that wasn't overkill to have both methods of securing a missive's privacy when in Hell, but it felt aged and rather tedious.
The missive was written by hand in slanted cursive, which had Vox blinking a moment to decipher the few lines on the page. It was from Alastor, which Vox felt he should have guessed given how archaic the set up was. Even though he had never seen Alastor write in cursive before. Maybe it was just a correspondence thing? Some weird formality training for sending letters in the 1920’s? 1930's?
Either way the letter held more disappointment than excitement. Even in learning a bit more about Alastor receiving this missive in the manner of delivery and composition, what it said told Vox that his night was ending early or with him drinking alone.
It read:
‘𝒱𝑜𝓍,
𝒜𝓅𝑜𝓁𝑜𝑔𝒾𝑒𝓈, 𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝓅𝒶𝓁, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓌𝑒’𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹𝓊𝓁𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒. ℋ𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶 𝒹𝓇𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝑜𝓃 𝓂𝑒. 𝒯𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓇𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝓌𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓃 ‘𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒’ 𝒻𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓊𝓇.
𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 ℛ𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎,
𝒜𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇’
(Vox, Apologies, old pal, but we’ll have to reschedule for another time. Have a drink on me. Tell the bartender you're owed an ‘eighteen mile’ favour. Yours Respectfully, Alastor)
Vox glanced back to reply to the other demon, but the fuzzy sinner was already gone and the bartender was serving drinks to a table on the far side of the room. Vox sighed, trying to decide if it was worth it to stay and have another drink or if he should head back home. With how disappointing this night was turning out, a drink sounded nice, but he didn't feel up for staying here when it was Alastor who was supposed to be here with him.
So he set the exact amount of coins needed to pay for his drinks he had, then stood up and exited through another way back up into the tailor shop. Another secret door and old staircase covered in weird hanging vegetation before he was spat out into a false dressing room in the shop above.
It was then that Vox heard the rolling of thunder, rumbling loudly even through the barrier of being inside. He flinched at hearing how close that sounded. The cracking of scream lightning followed and he felt his posture tense.
Fuck, he hadn't been able to watch the progress of the weather with there being no windows downstairs. Two hours was more than enough time for a bit of overcast to turn into a proper storm in Hell. And now it seemed that he would be caught out in it if he didn't hurry, or didn't return back down to the secret bar.
He exited the faux dressing room, past the two proper and operating dressing rooms towards the front of the shop so he could peek out of the windows. It wasn't raining yet, thankfully. The warning of what was to come in the thunder and lightning seemed to be all it was doing at the moment.
There was still time. Not much, but he preferred to go home and mope in private. Perhaps drink from his own collection of high-end bottles.
But he never made it that far.
The rain had begun as a mere sprinkle, but was rapidly gearing up into a proper downpour. Vox was having to sprint between makeshift shelters of acid-resistant awnings and doorways. His coat, which was thick enough to handle a quick spell of acid rain but not a downpour, was pulled up over his head to keep the plastic and glass from melting through.
The thunder had grown closer and louder, the lightning screaming across the sky near enough for Vox to see now. Which had been the deciding factor on him giving up on getting to his home.
Alastor’s apartment, which happened to be situated under his radio tower, was closer and since Box hadn't cashed in that ‘eighteen-mile favour’ he figured he could maybe at least hang around the tiny porch Alastor's had. Especially if Alastor was out. That seemed more than likely given the needed rain check, but at least it would be dry and somewhat familiar as he rode out the storm.
The prickling of electric-charge about the air always left his insides tingling and pruritic, which didn't help the discomfort he felt during every storm. The unease compounded from the underlying feelings from how he died mingled with the physical uncomforableness he felt. His own electricity was innate and familiar, something he could control and use to influence other man-made currents as he pleased. Even capable of tapping into the very low frequencies of the electromagnetic spectrum.
Yet the wild and unhindered nature of lightning, carrying the potential of a billion volts of electricity brought with it very human memories of dying by electrocution and as well it didn't help that he could feel incipient building of electricity about the air during storms. The way his own abilities reacted to the changes, especially before and more prominently during a storm, thus making him feel strung taut and twitchy. In more ways than one.
Physically so in the build-up of static charge within his circuits, which had his head feeling fuzzy and his programmes sluggish. Not to mention the natural heaviness that everyone felt before a massive storm, the dampness and warmth made it all more uncomfortable to be a sinner who operates warmer than most. His internal cooling mechanisms already remained taxed due to living in literal Hell, but add the humidity of a thunderstorm, they became thick and lethargic.
It all coalesced into a right miserable state for Vox whenever Hell decided to have this level of bad weather. Which was more often than he would like, but not yet often enough for him to need to think of a better solution than spending a night inside with loud music and alcohol. Still. He hated it, and usually was much more mindful of avoiding being out in them.
Fuck Alastor for having him come out in this, then not even meet him. Even though he had sent word, Vox was going to make the other demon pay that ‘eighteen mile’ favour by letting him wait out the storm at his, since he wasn't going to make it back to his own.
That simmering anger allowed Vox the energy and distraction to push through running down several more roads, zigzagging from dry spot to dry spot, needed to arrive in the subdistrict that housed Alastor’s tower which doubled as one of his apartments. Vox only knew of this one’s location, given the obvious radio station built above it and only one Radio Demon in Hell, but knew others existed even if he didn't have specifics on where yet.
Pausing in the thin shelter of a large sign, broken and internal lights flickering, but still standing to give a small scrap of dry shelter amongst the acidic wetness of the storm, Vox stared at the building below the radio tower. The lights within the tower were dark, that eerie red glow was normal for it, Vox knew, and the ‘ON AIR’ sign was switched off.
He frowned, feeling dread sink into the pit of his stomach. All the more so when he looked at the windows on the apartment below that he could see from this side. Blinds were down, curtains drawn, and one was boarded up from the inside. It looked dark behind them all as well.
Vox wilted.
Fuck.
With a growing sense of desperation, Vox eyed the short overhang that covered the small porch Alastor’s place had. There were long vines and a dark, fabric-looking foliage hanging off it in several spots, along with what looked like hand-made windchimes of yarn and wood… Maybe bone? Vox shuddered privately. But no matter to the strange personal decorations of Alastor’s choice, it looked dry underneath and roomer than under this sign. Thus that's currently what counted most to Vox.
Taking a deep vent of air, Vox sprang forwards to run across the way and dive underneath the cover. His coat was on its last legs in keeping his headset covered, he could feel a few drops burning through the now damaged cloth and sizzling across the plastic and metal of his head. He cringed and brought his sleeve up to pat at the burning points.
He hissed at feeling his wrist sting at the contact with the acid, but it was better to burn that than his headset. Hell wasn't exactly overrun with new age tech to replace what was damaged. At least not with a lot of money put out and time spent. Which was never ideal.
Vox reached the door, a sturdy heavy wooden door. Carved into the centre of it was an intricate deer skull with sprouting antlers that vines and swampy foliage hung from. Symbols were elaborately woven into an arched border around the perimeter of the door that was made to look like more vines and the skeletons of trees. It was both beautiful in its own way and foreboding.
An aged door knocker sat below the etching of the skull. Vox used it, wincing at the echoing thump it gave. Then outrightly jumped when a screech of scream lightning bolted through the air. He grit his teeth at feeling the buzzing ache felt in his back molars. That one must have been nearly overhead.
He knocked again. Squeezing his eyes shut at the impossibly loud rumbling roll of thunder that followed, Vox hoped beyond hope that Alastor was in. That he wasn't holed up somewhere else to wait out the storm. He had cancelled their plans for a reason, so he had to be here… Unless he was at one of those other places he owned or lived.
Fuck! That was seeming more and more likely with the time elapsed since he first knocked, then the second, and still going without an answer. Or even a threat of violence for bothering him at home. Vox would have taken that because then at least he wouldn't have been alone out in this.
Although he wasn't so lucky apparently. Everything inside appeared still and silent.
No one was home.
Seeing no other choice, Vox crouched in a corner that was between the thick doorframe and an odd angle of a bump-out wall. It was the farthest spot away from the edge of the patio, hidden behind an old looking chair that held a weathered cushion and was draped in dark vegetation. He leant against the rough outside panelling of the wall, unpainted wood. Or used to be painted it looked like, it was more exposed wood and faded paint chips now.
It wasn't ideal, but it was the safest spot he could find at the moment. Especially since the raindrops had turned into sheets now, carried by a heavy wind and highlighted by the continuation of the cacophony of lightning and thunder.
He wrapped his arms around his chest and drew his knees up to rest the edge of his headset on the tops of them, staring at the slates of scuffed wood that comprised the tiny porch rather than looking out into the torrent of a storm taking its sweet time in passing through the city. Anything to try to distract himself from it.
“One would think after ten years in Hell, you'd better prepare yourself for the unpredictableness of its weather considering the delicate constitution your picture-box self grants you.”
Vox jumped at the sudden voice, lurching to his feet instantly and whirling to look towards the door. Then he relaxed instantly at realising it was Alastor. Although his vision field narrowed, glaring at having been startled by the other demon, but before he could spit out a rejoiner, or even an irritated ‘fuck you’, his optics took in a clearer picture of Alastor before him.
The cervidae demon was standing in the front doorway, blocking the small gap between the threshold and the door itself with his body, but it looked more so like he was bracketing himself between the two in order to help keep himself upright. The way he was leaning was the giveaway because it wasn't the purposeful way Alastor leant, postured and posed, this looked to be an absolute necessity.
Not to mention how the other demon was pale. The usually deep brown-grey of his features appeared watered down, more grey-ish hued and the luminescent quality to his red eyes was dimmed. Granted Vox hadn't ever seen Alastor dressed down in his home before, so perhaps this was normal?
Yet Al didn't seem the sort to spend a day in lounge wear, nor blow off a prearranged engagement for a mere lie in. That felt wholly out-of-character, even for the other demon who did sometimes whimsical things for mere amusement. Alastor was meticulous and careful, eccentric and temperamental at times yet still posed and collected.
Besides, why would Alastor take the time to send a missive if it would be better amusement to leave Vox to wait for however long, sitting alone and waiting for a friend who wouldn't come?
So no this wasn't a long game of Alastor, or some cruel amusing trick that he decided was worth the effort. Something was wrong.
“You're one to talk of 'delicate constitution', you look like shit.” Vox finally shot back, his digital features reflecting that discernment, as he stepped closer, creating a more appropriate conversation distance. As if Alastor hadn't just caught Vox hiding out on his patio.
At hearing a spike in the ambient static that trailed around Alastor’s person, Vox backpedalled verbally at realising how that could be taken, especially on one’s own property, “Well, not that you don't look good, threatening as always. Just you also look… sick? Holy fuck! Are you actually sick?! That's why you cancelled! You're sick?!”
The door was promptly slammed in his face.
Vox blanched with a surprised yelp and a hurried step back, then tensed and shouted loud enough to, hopefully, be heard inside, “Rude! I was just asking!”
Perhaps accidentally letting his own mirth slip into his tone and expression at finding the Radio Demon had needed to take a sick day wasn't his wisest of reactions. It wasn't as if sinners were confined to the ‘Pride’ Ring without reason, so he could actually understand why Alastor had shut him out. Quite literally at that. But Vox wasn't going to admit that out loud.
Silence replied to his words and Vox frowned, peeved at both Alastor and himself. Well, he was, before a double strike of the scream lightning cracked through the deep red-lit sky and had him stiffening with a ripple of renewed aversion. Not fear, no, no, no.
Vox hunched his shoulders, venting heavily through the slits in his sides as well as his mouth in trying to keep his systems from kicking into overdrive. Whatever this demonic half-organic, held-technological body of his used in lieu of a ‘flight or fight’ response, it always had his frame feeling overly warm when it washed over him as it did now. His systems jumped to work at a rate that even engaging in a physical fight, even ones that were to-the-’death’, didn't initiate.
Feeling shaken, despite nothing having happened to him, Vox tried to think of a way to dig himself out of this hole he made. Anything to get further away from this stupid storm. Especially because the acid rain wasn’t just sprinkling anymore, not even sheets, it had turned into a truly proper downpour.
Water poured off the slanted awning in veritable waterfalls to create puddles so vast they looked like pools upon the ground. The rain itself fell at a harsh slant that thankfully was angled away from the cover of the small porch. Although if the wind changed directions, Vox wouldn't be so lucky if he stayed out here.
Distantly, several screams could be heard. The outcries from the unfortunate sinners who were caught out in this mess, their screams signalling that they had started to dissolve under the unforgiving deluge.
Vox winced, grimacing at the usually walled off memory of being newly arrived in Hell and having the misfortune to do so during a terrible acid storm after dying as he did. It wasn't a set of memories he revisited if he could help it.
He eyed the tiny porch he was standing on. Knowing that begging wouldn't work because Alastor loved to listen to souls scream, cry, and mewl in their futile effort to try to appeal to the Radio Demon and get out of whatever torture they bfought upon themselves. Thus that wouldn't work here, but Vox did know exactly what would work.
“How about a Deal?” Vox called out, knocking loudly again, “I have a proposition for you!”
After a few moments, in which Vox tried not to let himself deflate with apprehension, the door creaked open a crack.
Dark shadows withered behind it, a faint eerie green glow crackled throughout the blackness in an array of symbols that Vox didn't know the meanings of. Although he noticed they held less vibrance than the last time he could remember seeing them. Less active too, seeming to pick a stop in the darkness and remaining an idle, lowly luminescent show of magic, whereas they were usually—from what Vox could recall—a bright green glow, near blinding and would spin or slide across the walls and flooring as if infected with Alastor's excitement for a Deal or fight.
Vox didn’t give into the urge to gulp nor allow his facial pixilation programme to reflect any degree of sweating to run, he wasn't going to show nervousness here. Alastor could smell Deal anxiety better than any shark with blood in the water. And he never failed to latch onto that advantage.
Instead Vox grinned like this was a normal thing between them, “A deal, yeah? How about you let me come in and… I don't mention that I saw the Radio Demon brought down by a common bug?”
The door opens further, but Vox can only see the gleam of red eyes and jagged yellow teeth. Alastor’s voice followed a low growl, heavily filtered yet clearly audible, “You mention nothing of what you've seen since knocking on my door, nor what you may see or may happen in my place of dwelling to anyone —which includes bringing it up between us in the future— in verbal, written, coded, hinted, and/or any other communicative method for the rest of our existence.”
“Only if I don't get kicked out before the storm ends,” Vox countered with his own addition, wanting to ensure his own safety in this.
“Fine, but I can banish you to only the living room, and bathroom as needed, if you annoy me too much,” Alastor shot back, his form taking a more solid shape in the doorway again.
Another snapping crack of shrieking lightning rent across the sky and Vox couldn't hide the way his body jerked. His eyes widened yet he was uncomprehending of the way Alastor's head tilted at his reaction. Focussed solely was he on getting off this patio and inside somewhere safe, Vox stuck out his hand, “Deal.”
A smirk was on Alastor’s face then rather than his signature grin, and Vox felt his own features glitch slightly, but suddenly Alastor's hand was in his and they were shaking on the terms of their Deal.
A swirl of green energy encased their palms followed by a hint of blue electricity, and Vox instinctively closed his eyes at the burst of bright green light. He's seen Alastor make a Deal before and knew the symbols that followed it and the transformation Alastor’s form took on for a brief moment as the deal magically solidified.
Although the haunting animal screech that usually accompanied the use of his magic sounded strained to his audials. And he opened his eyes to find Alastor swaying a bit, mostly looking his usual self except for the overground antlers jutting up and out from his head, the strangely visible ‘x’ death mark, and the vivid radio dials within his red irises.
But it was the most tame he had ever seen a Deal take hold with Alastor. The magical blow back was minimal and so was the demonic transformation of the Deal binder. Alastor never shied away from showing the more hellish attributes to his true demon form, and Vox had expected a more eldritch display.
To not see it felt wrong. And clued Vox in on the fact that Alastor may be feeling worse than he looked.
Or maybe he didn't go all out for Deals between demons he knew well?
One could hope.
Still the change had Vox staying stationary. Even at feeling the Deal solidify and in noticing the uncharacteristic tremble in Alastor's hand that was still in his. He glanced up from their joined hands to see evidently using that level of magic when a sinner was ill apparently wasn't a swell idea. Judging by the glazed, distant look in Alastor’s eyes and the way he swayed slightly on his feet.
Good to know for future reference, Vox noted absently.
“Al?” Vox ventured at visibly catching Alastor pale another shade, which was weird to see in real time, feeling his expression tense in a way that had his coding vying against each other for which way to arrange his features upon his screen.
Too many of his emotions and the underlying uncertainty left a complex mesh of ‘confusion.exe’ and ‘concerned.exe’ running subroutines of ‘for-self-for-alastor-for-what’s-next-for-future’ one after another. It had his screen overlaying with snow for a few moments before he settled on a pinched frown.
It still had his screen flickering once, then twice before Alastor seemed to blink and come back to himself. Although Vox had seen plenty to know tonight would be a quiet one if Alastor was going to be this out of it. Not that he expected more, but it would have been nice to have a better distraction from the raging storm. Perhaps Vox could convince him to keep a record playing to keep Vox entertained even when Alastor retired. It shouldn't be too difficult given Alastor’s known love of music. Vox would listen to anything at this point, whatever Al wanted even.
“Well, are you going to come inside? Or void our little contract?” Alastor said, as if it hadn't been him holding them up in the doorway, after breaking their hands apart and waving his now freed hand towards the interior of his place.
Vox just rolled his eyes with an huff of vented air beneath his shirt, and stepped inside.