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George Taylor was not a violent man in life, and to be faced with so much violence immediately in Hell? He was absolutely not ready. Not only was he unprepared for the levels of pure chaos, but even his own body was beyond a little different. He couldn’t say it didn’t make some sense, he’d only died with a large television set dropped directly onto his head. Turns out that’s quite enough pressure to cause the skull to give in and be crushed completely. He had enemies, sure, while alive, it wasn’t something that could be easily avoided in the line of business he had pursued, at the end of the day. And some of those people were more temperamental than he was, but that was where his disarming charm was used the best. He could talk a majority of people down from a direct conflict, could sugar his words just right so that they would feel reassured. White lies, little seeds of doubt or warmth, a way of wriggling into their hearts and minds. He was good at it. He was just a plain, simple man, anyway. What was intimidating of someone as plain as him? Dressed well and groomed, with an easy smile and all the patience in the world. A soft voice, dulcet tones, easy airs of confidence and pleasantry. It worked.
Usually.
His life’s final confrontation was impossible to ease down, and George was not a fighter in any way. He could be quick on his feet, but fear, while motivating, didn’t make it easy. It wasn’t as though it wasn’t a fair experience - he’d gotten the man booted from his job, needled down with debt, and serving time for something he definitely did not do, as a star witness who lied on the stand in full confidence and with the performance of a lifetime. It made sense he was murdered, and it made perfect sense he found himself here in Hell, something he did, at least, gather quickly.
He didn’t anticipate some sort of warm welcome, of course, no group of happy campers to explain how things worked or to help him out, but he also didn’t quite anticipate being jumped and pushed into an alleyway by a small group of three rough looking demons (he had to guess? Surely that was what they were called?) who threw him to the ground, searched his pockets, slammed his head against a wall, and took his slightly worn out jacket and his shoes of all things, considering he had nothing else to offer. He wasn’t sure how a television of a head could lead to the pain shooting through his back and limbs, and while he was unsure of anything else that was injured, it hurt more than he liked to admit, and trying to stand led to such severe vertigo that he slid down against the wall and just stayed there.
He had never been so beaten down so fast while alive, even as a sickly sort. He was often ill, pushing through regardless and a little less than sturdy as a result, but he’d always been able to keep some sort of victimization at bay. Yet here he was now, exhausted already, in pretty poor shape and relative thundering pain, hazy vision and some sort of buzzing in the back of his mind that was steadily growing. It was a little distracting, really, and he sort of leaned into the sound, trying to follow it, the odd tones and shifting noise. It reminded him of an older time, before he was a television personality, back when he worked in the industry fixing problems with the tech. It was a sound mostly associated with audio problems, really. He wondered how deep the effects of having such a … changed physical form went. He hadn’t even had the opportunity to really look or examine it much before things went down, anyway.
Static was building in his head, and George was finding it hard to think. The sound of it shifted and changed every moment, pitch and tone flowing up and down like someone trying to tune an old instrument, except interspersed by buzzing and screeching of something electronic. Like a speaker ruined by water, or being in general interfered with. He tried reaching out to it mentally in some way, a sort of … internal troubleshooting. It felt weird and almost nauseating to explore, but he was trying to make any sense of it. He found he could sort of lower the volume of it, but it kept rising even when he did, steadily, and eventually he gave up, letting the buzzing, shrill feedback take over his mind.
He barely noticed a shadow tower over him.
But he did. He saw it projected along the ground and over his person, and his heart dropped into his stomach. A soft little plea for mercy escaped him, and he realized he had been whimpering quietly for a little while now. He hadn’t noticed in the whirlwind of emotion and sensation, and something akin to tears appeared to be dripping from his screen. It felt weird. A chill settled over him, and he felt fear sink into his soul.
George looked up at the person causing the shadow. Shades of red, black accents, a demon dressed rather formally and holding something that looked like both a cane and some sort of … microphone? The buzzing was so loud in his ears, and then it abruptly cut quiet as the looming form spoke.
“Good to see you, old friend.” A hand was outstretched to him, the friendliest gesture anyone had shown him so far, at all.
Old friend? For a moment, all George could do was stare at him, this strange … person? Man? Devil? And then it clicked.
Was that Alastor? They had met a couple of times over the years they lived on Earth simultaneously. A radio host, whose voice George was fairly familiar with when he would make his trips through his area. They’d met in person only a handful of times, at various functions that George ended up at per his workplace. The two had shared a few conversations, and he remembered them well, one of which being recommended to look into broadcasting himself, a compliment that George had taken quite seriously. Alastor had been a hell of a man when alive, certainly, in spite of what he thought he knew of his potential crimes. It wasn’t as though it was his job to judge, and it wasn’t as though he felt he had been in any danger. He remembered hearing about his death, finding it quite regrettable and sad, even. It was quite the accident to learn of. But Alastor was far from who he expected to run into, let alone to be recognized by.
“Alastor?”
Idiot. It was the only thing he could seem to say, even as he reached forward and placed his own hand in the other’s. His blue fingers contrasted so starkly against the red of his old acquaintance’s. But he found support and strength in the grip of his friend’s, and Alastor helped him stand and steadied him easily when he swayed. He was smiling wide, and George wondered if he was really that happy to see him. He couldn’t help but feel a little relief - okay, a lot of it. A weight was being lifted from his chest, seeing someone familiar, someone he would happily trust in this moment. Maybe a little naive, or a dangerous line of thoughts, but he couldn’t help himself.
“The one and only!” Alastor replied, chipper energy in the words. “You look an absolute mess, friend, what happened?”
“Oh, uh,” George hesitated to respond, but it was hard to miss the clear evidence of an attack, anyway. Or at the least, the torn clothing and dazed expressions. “Someone stole my jacket and shoes.” He said it with a shrug, and he offered his own easy smile. It was something he could do, at least. He could pretend, in this moment, that it didn’t matter.
“How shameful of them! Come along, I’ll get you sorted out straight away. What did they look like?” The question had him blinking, and then scrambling to remember. It hadn’t even happened more than an hour ago, so he gave what description he could. Alastor simply nodded, looking away in what he thought was some sort of consideration. He placed a hand on George’s back, urging him out of the alleyway finally, leading him down the sidewalk.
“Sorry, I’m just a little out of it still,” he said quickly. “Just got here and I didn’t quite think it would all be so … immediately exciting.” Carefully chosen words as he examined his surroundings, peering around to finally get a sense of where he might be, the state of things around here. He’d barely made it a few blocks on his own, before.
“Worry not, we’ll get you right as rain in no time at all,” was all Alastor offered, and George fell into step with him cautiously.
Things were odd. Alastor brought him to what seemed to be a tailor, offering to cover him getting repaired and refreshed clothing for the time being. He didn’t ask for anything from George as they left, but he couldn’t help feeling relieved. He noted that many seemed to shy away from Alastor for some reason, fleeting glances and then people crossing the roads, as if to get away from him. It was a weird thing to see - Alastor was still only smiling, seemingly unbothered by any of it.
“What’s with the parting of the crowd?” George finally asked after a little more walking, entirely unsure where they were even going, now.
“Oh, they’re merely getting out of the way,” Alastor said simply. “I’ve made a few waves here, they know to move pretty well.” He said it so jauntily, George couldn’t find a reason to mind it. If Alastor had made a name for himself already, then all the better, right? Good for him.
They walked only for a few blocks before George realized they were within sight of the group that had attacked him. Stepping a little closer to Alastor, without realizing it, he tensed up. Alastor seemed to notice, however.
“Is that them?”
“I- I think so? The one on the right has my jacket, at least.”
“Stay here, yes?”
“Uh. Okay.”
Alastor broke away from him with a few strides and approached the small group of other demons. Alastor’s height towered over them, and they seemed very startled by his presence. George stayed where he was told, unable to hear the conversation, though it was clearly mostly Alastor speaking to them at length before holding out one hand, palm up, expecting something. A moment passed, and then something in the air changed, and the buzzing static and feedback roared in his ears all of a sudden. He saw the space around Alastor darken, saw a long, strange set of antlers begin to grow from his temples. Dark shadows formed around the trio, and those around otherwise were quick to clear away at the display, but George could only seem to stare. The shadows traveled up and wrapped around each of the demons, and he snatched George's jacket and shoes from them, as well as other belongings. The shadows squeezed harder and harder, until they were certainly pleading desperately, before being abruptly consumed into the ground without further showing. Alastor draped the jacket over his arm and returned to George’s side, holding his things out.
George blinked a few times before remembering himself, taking them from him with a rushed set of thank you’s, which Alastor only waved away with a quick dismissive comment. They fell into step together again, and Alastor asked if he felt fine enough to join him for lunch.
“Oh, yeah, of course. I’ll be fine, thank you.”
“No thanks necessary. What else are friends for? You must catch me up, I’m sure we have plenty to discuss, so stay close, hm?”
“Definitely will do.”
And ... well. Vox would be a man of his word, for as long as Alastor wanted him there.