Chapter Text
He’s so fucking pathetic.
His monitor flickers, briefly drowning the room in darkness.
Synthetic skin kisses the cold tile. Each breath is shallow and barely there. He feels like he’s suffocating, his lungs filled with lead and the corners of the room slowly creeping in. An empty bottle of Xanax lays beside him as his only company. Internal warnings flash and scream, and his system feels like it’s going to collapse. But it’s easier this way—he needs that noise to quiet.
Hands absentmindedly toy with the gun and the singular angelic bullet. Valentino’s. Nice, isn’t it? He’ll probably be pissed as fuck to realize he stole his precious gun—that brings a weak smile to his face.
They won’t miss them. He’s doing them a favor, after all. Alastor will probably jump with joy after learning about his death. He’s glad in the end he will do some good to the world. Give Velvette and Valentino a headline to work with, a burden off their shoulders. They should thank him. He’s doing the right thing.
It’s so funny that he wants to laugh! He does laugh, because nobody’s here now, nobody gets to dictate the last moments of his life. Him, CEO of Voxtek, one month ago inches away from godhood—now slumped on the floor, bleeding out, gun in his hands. Will he go to double hell? What’s out there for him? Nothing? A disappointed God? An eternity of suffering?
Whatever. Fucking hell, the angelic bullet he put in his left leg hurts so fucking much. His blood drips down and pools around his feet like a little pity fest. Remaining alive feels like a herculean effort. He should get a fucking award for this! Despite decades of work pressure slowly building and rotting him from the inside, despite thousands of little failures and rejections, despite his first, fucking humiliating death, despite the millions of cuts and bruises and live vivisections he’s endured as his time as an overlord, right now seems to be the worst pain he’s ever experienced, in life and in death. His processors aren’t built for this shit, but fuck, it’s all a masochistic dance anyways, because he has control over his pain sensitivity and he has it purposely dialed to 100. And it’s nice, because for some reason that makes him all giddy inside, a tiny solace to holding this god-given weapon in his hands. Is he going insane?
Static continues to cloud the room, loud, screeching in his ears—He brings up his claws to his screen, watching fractures bloom and error codes grow.
He’d give anything to kill Alastor before he dies. To end that fucker’s life once and for all, to watch the light in his eyes fade with sadist glee. To take an angelic knife and gut him from mouth to stomach, to pull out all of his organs and stain the floor with his blood, and maybe his own, too—
No. Nonononono, fuck, this isn’t about him. He's not going to let him take away his own autonomy, too.
Instead he focuses on that searing agony splitting him open, gnawing at his biomechanical heart and drowning his body in murky ocean water. He wants to scream but he doesn’t, because he can’t alert anyone, no, fuck no— It hurts so fucking much. He’s crying now, tears trickling down his monitor. Each breath is another blade grating against flesh. God, he’s so pathetic, crying alone on the floor—but it’s okay, though, because when he dies the pain will be gone, and so will these feelings, and then there’ll be nothing. He’ll be nothing and his body will disintegrate and dissolve to freely return to the universe, all signs of his presence gone.
It’s in that finality where he finds comfort. It’s fine. Nothing matters anymore, because it will all end soon. And fuck! He’s doing it on his own terms—not at the hands of god, not at the anger of the public, not even at the dismissive silence of Alastor. This is his choice, and that control makes him happy. Even with his own company and the light of godhood stripped away, he still has his own life to hold and love and hate and destroy.
He puts the bullet in the cylinder and brings it to his head. His arms tremble, but he lets the darkness consume him as he closes his eyes, letting himself return to that quiet space between the stars.
.
.
.
And then the door bangs open, loud. Light creeps in— invasive, flooding the room in its fury. An angelic figure frames the doorway, wings flared and eyes wide in shock.
“Vox?!”