Chapter Text
Slouched against the building with his arms crossed, Vox stood concealed in the shadow of the alley eying a slender man in the distance, a grin of intrigue curled at his lips. The red demon floated down the street, his steps light and shoes clacking rhythmically as he exited Franklyn & Rosie’s Emporium. Vox noticed the pride in his posture—puffed chest and raised chin, his inflated ego plainly evident.
Vox had heard many rumors about the smiling sinner turned Overlord, how he quickly coined the title of Radio Demon within mere weeks of his appearance. He devoured and bound countless souls in the same time frame, quickly scaling up the ranks. Now, twenty years Vox’s senior, the red demon’s name echoed throughout Hell like the fires that tormented its people.
Vox constantly heard the Radio Demon’s nasally voice emitting from speakers on the streets and in bars and cafes, but he never paid much attention to his broadcasts. He knew he was leagues ahead of the prance-about, one-trick demon, even if he was nowhere near his rank. But whatever posed a threat to his growing influence needed to be controlled or trampled, no matter how insignificant.
Normally, the CEO of VoxTek Enterprises wouldn’t dream of strolling the filthy streets so casually. He preferred the comfort of his office or penthouse—high above the grime, surrounded by luxury and glass. He could have easily relied on his vast network of surveillance cameras to keep tabs on the red demon from afar. Yet something about the man pulled him out into the open, a quiet instinct warning him that the one in the striped suit was no ordinary demon.
Dissipating into a bolt of electricity, Vox traveled through the streetlights toward the radiohead, deal in hand.
Alastor’s shadow-being slithered into the alley where Vox once stood, sure it sensed watchful eyes on its master. Looming with teeth protruding and talons curled, it aimed to threaten the stalker, but found him gone. Its wide grin fell with a confused disappointment. Someone had surely been there a moment ago, it reasoned inwardly. Turning to peek around the corner, he saw the demon in question standing in the path of its master with arms outstretched.
‘Return to me, Sombra,’ Alastor's voice echoed in its mind.
Its grin returned as it snaked back to his master’s feet, finally catching a proper view of the strange, humanoid television.
“Hello there!” Vox sang as he materialized before the Radio Demon.
Alastor peeled his eyes open at the sound of the whiny voice, meeting the other man’s gaze without missing a step. Shutting them again, he continued on, nearly stepping on Vox’s freshly polished loafers.
Flabbergasted by the other man’s blatant disregard of him, Vox thought, ‘What the— Doesn’t he know who I am?!’ Ripples of pent up energy danced around him, the picture of his face jumping as the typical fuzzy hiss of static loudened.
Stifling an annoyed growl, Vox tried to sell his offer again. “Just one second of your time, sir. Allow me to indulge you with a tasteful proposition,” he enticed, proceeding to elaborate on his deal in brief detail.
Alastor listened halfheartedly as Vox insisted he join his so-called “elite team,” insisting they could use a man like him. The mention of the other Vee’s piqued his attention if only for a moment, but he remained silent and unfazed, pressing forward.
Vox knew his efforts would be futile without a more invasive approach. Planting himself before the red demon, he firmly grabbed his shoulders as his eyes morphed to spirals.
“C’mon, what’s the harm in it? You and I will split the benefits 50/50,” he enticed, adding, “You have my word,” sarcasm lacing his cheap attempt at being earnest.
“No, thank you,” Alastor sang in response, his voice distorted with the muffle of a radio. Poking the man in the chest with his cane, he pushed him away, adding, “I am in no need of your ‘assistance.’ Now, I must be on my way. Have the day you deserve,” he stated flatly, striding away.
Alastor had heard an earful about the clownish Overlord since his appearance some years prior. There was no opportunity to ignore him, what with his face quickly becoming plastered on every newspaper, billboard and screen. The cursed televisions—brought to Hell by the man—began springing up all over town, in bars and cafes before eventually making their way into citizens' homes; a thought that sickened Alastor to his core.
Just weeks prior to their present encounter, a shop had opened up dedicated to the damned picture boxes, directly across from his favorite tailor. A wall of them stood stacked in the window, replaying the same five advertisements, all promoting Vox News and VoxTek gadgetry.
But even in the boom of television, Alastor never perceived the blue demon as a threat, expressing no desire to engage with his many frivolous business ventures.
Vox’s confidence faded as he realized the failure of his usually undefeated tactic of hypnosis. As he stood on the sidewalk dumbfounded, he recognized the Radio Demon’s power, his ability to easily defy his hypnosis a clear sign that he was a formidable Overlord.
All the more reason to have him under his belt, Vox told himself.
He checked his surroundings then, feeling the gaze of onlookers as they recognized him. The last thing he needed at that moment was fanfare.
Returning to Alastor’s side, Vox pulled him in with an arm hooked around his neck. “Let’s take this to my office, shall we?”
Alastor threw him a sharp glare, but before he could counter the request, the world warped around him, light smearing into streaks. His usually pointed ears flipped back as his eyes darted around in confusion. In a flash, Alastor found himself in Vox’s sparkling office high above the city.
Sombra screeched in fear, hiding behind its master’s shoulder.
‘Get off me,’ Alastor ordered coldly, hardly offering it a glance.
Without hesitation, his shadow obeyed but remained trembling.
“Just think: an unlikely partnership turns out to be the best pairing in all of Hell!” Vox continued, gesturing as he trailed to his liquor cabinet. “We’d have the number one podcast, combining the best of both worlds. You get to do what you do best, and I televise it! Sprinkle in some controversial topics, and boom! The next big thing to hit the media takes Hell by storm,” he pressed on, painting his fantasy as he poured his valued guest whiskey on the rocks.
Snapping his neck to the beast who dared to manipulate his soul, Alastor’s toothy grin widened with annoyance as he flipped his ears forward, radio static loudening around him. How was the TV demon able to use his powers on him that time and not before? Had he let his guard down, wrongly perceived the man as non-threatening? Whatever the reason, Alastor’s falsely confident grin remained, not daring to show the cracks in his composure.
‘Search the place,’ he commanded Sombra then. If the foolish clown decided to grant Alastor access to the headquarters of his self-proclaimed empire, who was he to refuse the opportunity.
The flat-faced figure rambled on pointlessly.
“Do you come with an off switch?” Alastor cut in, the distortion thick in his voice.
Vox’s grin faltered, his gaze sharpening into a glare aimed squarely at the red demon. For a moment, white static flickered across his face—an unintentional crack in his composure that he let show—but he quickly straightened up. He hadn’t come this far, spent so long tracing Alastor’s every move, just to backtrack now.
“Come, now. That’s no way to treat your host,” he warned. A bolt of light zipped toward Alastor then, Vox appearing before him, their noses nearly touching. “I have many switches, if you’d fancy to explore them.”
(Commission by dweeblle)
Alastor blinked, stunned by the rancid remark. His brows raised in surprise as the static around him fractured and skipped through stations—voices and bursts of music crackling and overlapping in chaotic disarray.
“But for now, let’s talk business,” Vox added, hooking his arm around Alastor again. “You see, I am but a humble businessman, and when opportunity calls, I have no choice but to answer,” he went on, ushering the man toward the table.
Alastor’s eye twitched at the sudden contact, radio static hissing again as his eyes glowed red. His blackened gums peaked beneath his wide grin, eldritch symbols floating in his red aura, warning the blue demon to keep his hands to himself.
If there was one thing the red demon hated, it was people putting their hands on him. Alastor itched to give him an earful, but bit his tongue.
He drew a breath to counter Vox’s statement, but the voice of another cut him off.
‘Now, now, Alastor. Be a good boy and hear him out. Let’s see what comes of this.’
It boomed in his head, rattling in his skull as the words crawled over his skin.
Sealing his lips, he begrudgingly remained silent.
There was no defying his superior.
“Forget about owning your soul. I have no use for that,” Vox assured him, inwardly thinking, ‘At least not for now.’
“You don’t?” Alastor dragged as Vox planted him in his seat.
“No! I thought that was clear,” Vox drawled, unfazed by Alastor's display of intimidation as he fell into his own chair. He offered an empty apology, looking around the room as he spoke. “Forgive me if I caused you any confusion.”
‘Play along!’ the voice demanded of Alastor.
Considering the enthusiasm of his superior, Alastor weighed his options.
He didn’t think he was falling behind as he saw no need to keep up with ever-changing trends, but he wasn’t blind to the influence television had over the public. He rethought Vox’s proposition: the boxy-headed demon would give him full access to the new industry, and what's more, easy access to a sea of souls. Perhaps Vox wasn’t as foolish as Alastor painted him to be.
He could use a man like him; in his case, literally.
Alastor brightly assured him there was nothing to worry about. “Perhaps my understanding was skewed,” he played off, relaxing into his seat as he crossed his legs. “Please, enlighten me! How does one become a Vee? If I were to join, I would need to know the ins and outs of our— business deal.”
A grin mirroring Alastor’s spread across Vox’s features. Finally, he got the demon to see things his way.
He spoke with pride, revealing that their shared power stemmed from the trio’s expanding grip on mainstream media. Their reach stretched across every major avenue: the airwaves of Vox News, the glimmering lights of sex entertainment, and the seductive pulse of the fashion industry. Each sector fed into the other, building an empire that thrived on attention and desire. With a confident grin, Vox assured the radiohead that their endeavors had only just begun.
“And I’ve still got so much planned. Talk shows, streaming platforms, production companies…” he rambled on, pausing as he leaned forward, drink in hand. “Podcasts,” he enticed again. “I don’t mean to be a nag, but I hope you’ve reconsidered my proposition.”
Alastor lifted his glass with a polished ease, the motion smooth enough to mask the sharp intent beneath it. A practiced smile curved at his lips as he met Vox’s gaze, the glint in his eyes betraying his calculation.
“Rest assured, I have,” he hummed, tone dripping with feigned enthusiasm. But behind the polite cadence, his eyes narrowed—sharp and knowing, already playing the next move in a game Vox didn’t yet realize had begun.
“Excellent,” the blue demon chuckled as he threw back the liquor. “One moment while I get a refill.”
“Oh, bring the whole bottle! Why so stingy?” Alastor teased.
‘Fucking hell, I hate this shit,’ he grumbled inwardly then, averting his gaze. ‘In all that is evil, release me!’ he begged, calling to a being that didn’t hear him.
In the brutal confines of his deal, Alastor was grateful his superior couldn’t access his thoughts.
Looking into his drink, he noted the beautiful amber color of the whiskey. At the very least, Alastor was grateful the clown hadn’t served him cheap booze. But he knew not to ingest anything from someone he just met.
Alastor refused to drink until Vox revealed the true source of his powers. Not the influence he claimed through media, but the peculiar abilities—the hypnotic shift in his eyes and the way he transformed into a bolt of electricity. Stroking Vox’s ego came naturally; the man reeked of narcissism and couldn't tolerate rejection. It was a distraction tactic—Alastor needed more time for his shadow to search.
Vox, predictably flattered, launched into an explanation. Like other Overlords, he dealt in souls, but his method was uniquely insidious. Every product sold under the VoxTek brand—whether a television, a landline, or even something as trivial as a T-shirt—was a contract in disguise. Once owned, the buyer’s soul belonged to him. The brilliance of it, he claimed, was in their ignorance. New arrivals in Hell brought gadgets from the mortal realm, and the Vee’s simply rebranded and sold them back, ensnaring the masses with little effort. It was a self-sustaining business model.
Vox’s cocky pride left a rancid taste in Alastor’s mouth, his grin twisting into a sneer.
He had no need for picture box advertisements and quick cash grabs, didn’t need to be seen by everyone and their mother. He preferred a certain level of mystery. But the accessibility to souls was something he couldn’t turn down.
His superior urged him to take the offer, its mind already made up. ‘Oh, just think of it, Alastor! Imagine the power we will gain!’ it roared, maniacally laughing. ‘Even if he has ulterior motives, it’s no matter. So long as you don’t contract yourself to him, you are free to do as you please.’
Alastor winced, a sharp pulse of pain cutting through his composure. He masked the distortion in his expression with a quick, exaggerated sneeze—a practiced bit of theater to conceal the strain. Glancing down, he checked his hand for any trace of blood, the usual herald of his splitting headaches. To his quiet relief, it came away clean.
“We’ll be towering over them, over all of Hell! We’ll be leading the industry,” Vox proclaimed again, his enthusiasm drooling from his chin. “You have my word.” Raising his glass once more, he sang, “Whadya say?”
Alastor tipped his head, swirling the whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass. “One last thing,” he began, maintaining his sing-songy, mocking tone. “I failed to catch your name.”
Vox’s brow twitched. He was on his way to becoming something of a celebrity in Pride City, but assumed a long-standing Overlord such as the Radio Demon wouldn’t acknowledge that.
Sitting up in his chair, he extended his glass further as his name suavely left his lips. “And you?” he hummed, the same mocking tone mimicked in his voice.
Alastor mirrored the motion, finally clinking their glasses together as he growled his name.
Vox took a brave swing of the liquor, shutting his eyes, providing Alastor the perfect moment to work a spell over his drink. It evaporated without a trace.
Smacking his lips together, he complimented, “Ah, what an excellently aged elixir.” Placing his glass down on the boney wooden table between them, he hastily stood up and added, “I thank you for inviting me here, truly. My afternoon couldn’t have been more entertaining.”
The words felt rotten in his mouth, burning his tongue as he spoke. Alastor never lied so plainly in his life. He couldn’t wait to escape Vox’s pristine prison, the modern decor making his skin crawl.
“But most unfortunately, we must part ways. I have my own business to attend to.”
“Of course!” Vox cheered, springing up. “Allow me to show you out.”
‘Return, Sombra,’ Alastor ordered then. His shadow swiftly obeyed with a mischievous chuckle.
Alastor let the blue clown escort him, summoning every ounce of restraint to maintain his calm, collected facade. Vox’s relentless rambling trailed beside him, the sour stench of alcohol on his breath making it even harder to endure.
At last, he was alone in the hallway. His grin softened as the tension eased from his shoulders, a low hum escaping him as he straightened his tie.
“What a nut job,” he muttered under his breath, irritation flickering momentarily.
So much precious time wasted—time he should’ve spent meeting with his superior instead of indulging Vox’s madness.
Back inside his office, Vox slammed the door shut with a burst of enthusiasm, throwing a fist in the air with a cheery woop. Congratulating himself and laughing maniacally, the excitement dripped from his chin as he trailed to his desk with his state-of-the-art, clunky desktop computer. Reaching for the landline, he eagerly dialed his partner in crime.
Kicking up his feet, he twirled the coil cord in his fingers, impatiently waiting to spill his success story to Velvette on the other end. Finally answering, he filled her ear about the Radio Demon and the unofficial confirmation of their deal. She asked Vox if he owned his soul, to which he answered “no,” warning him that perhaps his celebration came too soon.
He didn’t want to hear any of it.
“Oh, please, Vel! I’ve been hunting this guy for weeks and I finally got him in my office, so cut me some slack! I can’t just go throwing contracts in his face! He’s not some Imp-for-hire.”
Promptly ending the call with his finger on the button, Vox dialed Valentino. He knew the mothman would shower him with the praise he needed.
Out on the sidewalk, Alastor let out another exasperated sigh and called to his shadow, inquiring about its findings. Unable to speak, Sombra shared its vision, a picture show filling Alastor’s mind. Files titled with his name littered Vox’s desk, accompanied by a small television that clipped through a staticky, grayscale video feed. Alastor saw himself walking the streets, buying fresh cut meats, making deals and best of all, slaughtering Overlords. Blueprints of what seemed to be smaller, artfully hidden cameras within common household objects accompanied the files.
Nearly tripping over himself at the revelation, rage bubbled up in his veins, his grin stretching so wide it caused him pain, his eyes glowing again. Hex symbols re-emerged around him as the screech of radio static reverberated off the buildings.
‘How did that little rodent manage this?! He thinks he can watch me at all hours of the day, whenever he pleases?!’ Alastor asked himself.
The citizens on the street scattered, clearing his path as they disappeared into buildings and alleyways.
‘Looks like I’ve been too careless! Oh, no, The Great Alastor will no longer be seen, if not in person!’ he settled firmly as his eyes darted around the street.
Boxy surveillance cameras littered every traffic light, every corner of every building, a blue V logo plastered on them—the devil’s mark.
How had he not noticed them before?
Extending black tendrils from his back, he made quick work of them, crushing the cursed technology in mere seconds.
‘From henceforth, the only thing able to view me will be my own reflection in the glass!’ he resolved.
The tendrils caused damage to the surrounding area, flailing mindlessly as Alastor’s mind raced. It was far too soon for him to have been bested so easily. His undefeated streak persisted for decades. He was at the top of his game, the Ace of Spades in a world full of Jokers.
Uttering a malicious laugh, the red demon threw his head back, his shrill voice booming with volume. Finally, a worthy opponent, a true challenger had appeared.
His years of absolute boredom had come to a conclusion.
The illusive demon laughed in his ear, its voice distorted with a twisted joy. ‘Oh, what a show! I tell ya, I need some more entertainment like that in my life. I know you don’t want anything to do with Vox, but it would do you some good to join forces with him. Make sure to work out something nice for us. Won’t you, dear?’ it mocked before demanding, ‘Now hurry up and deliver me their souls! You’re already late.’
Alastor froze, the tendrils quickly retracting as his ears pulled back. His hands flew up to his head, gripping his temples as blistering pain split his skull. He dissipated into a pool of shadows, slithering into a nearby alley away from prying eyes. Rematerializing, he watched as blood dripped from his nose, sputtering from his mouth as he coughed.
His superior hadn’t spoken to him this often in some time. It must have truly been starving.
He struggled to rise, intent on resuming his unhurried stroll toward the hidden portal that led to the lair’s shadowed underworld. But his legs buckled beneath him, each breath coming in ragged huffs. He’d thought himself strong enough to withstand its mere voice—to stand firm against its presence. Yet the searing ache in his body told him otherwise.
He still had far to go, countless more souls to consume before that kind of strength would finally be his.
The entity groaned impatiently. ‘Just forget it! I see you’re still weak as ever, even after all these years. It’s a miracle you made it to the alley in one piece. I’ll just bring you here myself.’
The world warped and shifted as Alastor found himself in the hollow pit of his master, the farthest depth of Hell reserved for it solely. A thick iron chain weighed him down, green energy swirling around it, choking him as it laid secured around his neck. His hands and feet bound by the same chain, Alastor’s ever-present smile vanished as he knelt before the embodiment of his regrets.