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It looked like rain.
This was not, in itself, an unusual occurrence, but it was the only rationalisation that Alastor could make for the odd, unsettling thrum that prickled over his skin and made his ears flick with a visceral, instinctive alertness. That alone was enough to irk him, his smile twitching in displeasure; though by now he’d long been forced to come to terms with the appearance of his hellish, cervid form, the baser and more bestial physical reactions he was saddled with were something that still rankled. Those little tells he couldn’t quite suppress that broadcast prey, no matter how many he killed or consumed; no matter how many souls he subjugated and brought under his control.
Still, with the odd scurry of frantic movements among the shadows as wary sinners disappeared, the street was pleasingly quiet as he made his way downtown; his broadcast the previous day had really been quite entertaining.
As far as the rest of Hell was concerned, at least, he was nothing but a predator.
The sky was swiftly beginning to darken further, and really, it was just as well he’d already planned on stopping by Thomas’s as he had no desire to get his suit wet today - why, the tailor had only finished it just last week. Alastor whistled cheerily as he turned and sauntered down a narrow side street, and sure enough deep within the gloom a small, ruby red lamp was glowing softly above a heavy wooden door. A subtle signal, but more than enough for those in the know. While Thomas’s bar was not technically exclusive - that is to say, one did not require an invitation to enter, nor a reference from another patron - the effect of one of your regulars being a notoriously sadistic and violent overlord with a penchant for flesh simply could not be overstated. But Thomas was a good fellow with even better whisky, and Alastor always made sure that he was well compensated.
It was for this reason that he was mildly intrigued to see a new figure seated at the bar as he entered, who was leaning forward on one elbow as he gesticulated wildly with a tumbler of whisky in his hand that threatened to slop over with each careless movement. The odd staticky feeling that had been thrumming beneath his skin while still on the street abruptly spiked, clawing uncomfortably at the back of his neck. Alastor's smile froze, gaze fixing on the unusual silhouette of the stranger. Now, this was Hell - bizarre bodily configurations and ghoulish frankensteinian forms were par for the course and rarely worth a second glance, to be quite honest - but this sinner actually seemed to be something new. Fascinating!
“Evening,” Thomas’s familiar steadfast voice cut through his musings, and the short-statured sheep demon gave Alastor a nod from where he stood cleaning a glass behind the bar near the newcomer, clearly the ever-polite recipient of those overenthusiastic ramblings. Said ramblings audibly came to an abrupt standstill as the man’s shoulders tensed and he lowered his glass to take a deep drink.
“And to you, my friend,” Alastor returned, raising his eyebrows at the bartender’s deadpan expression - but oh, as always his slow blinking amber eyes could tell such a story! “It's not often we're graced with a new companion. How… exciting.” He bared his teeth in a sharp smile as he moved to sit beside the newcomer, resting his chin on one hand lazily and turning to gaze at that uniquely blocky head which, it turned out, was not only a head but also a distinctly emotive face! Goodness, he'd been aware of the rise of television over the past couple of decades, but seeing it manifest in hell in physical form as a sinner was something else entirely.
He always enjoyed this part; sizing up the fresh meat to see where they fell on the spectrum. Hell had such variety, you see, and sadly most sinners simply weren’t worth the time of day. But on occasion…
“I’m Alastor,” he said smoothly, “a pleasure to meet you.” He didn’t extend his hand. The boxy headed fellow’s faint look of surprise had contorted into a wide grin - a toothy smile that rather betrayed the uncertainty behind it despite the show of bravado.
“Vox,” the TV said, overly loud, awkwardly brazen. “This is a nice place, you come here often?”
There was silence for a moment as Alastor raised an eyebrow, and Vox - a silly name, really, but there was no accounting for taste - shifted a little where he sat. A thick cut crystal glass filled with his usual slid across the bar as Thomas’s gaze flicked pointedly to the newcomer before returning to Alastor, unimpressed. Ah. So he was here with a purpose - that purpose most likely being Alastor. Well, that always made things more interesting.
“When I can,” he replied at last, picking up his whisky to take a sip. “First time?”
“Nah,” Vox said, smile relaxing as he shifted his posture to sit more openly facing Alastor. He seemed to embody a kind of nervous, frantic energy that his suave veneer couldn’t quite hide. He was certainly trying his best, though! “Heard about it a while back and thought I’d come and check it out.”
“Every evening for the past week,” Thomas said, voice as expressionless as ever.
Vox’s expression twitched. “Like I said, it’s nice!”
“Quite the immediate fan, then!” Alastor laughed, delighted at the way Vox’s disgruntled gaze kept darting towards Thomas as though desperate to keep him from saying any more. “One has to wonder what it is that kept you coming back - admittedly the quality here is the best in the Pentagram, but that’s hardly common knowledge. And, perhaps, are you drinking—”
“Your usual,” Thomas supplied, nothing if not matter-of-fact, seemingly oblivious to the embarrassed flush that seemed to be beginning to colour Vox’s screen. He knew exactly what he was doing, of course, but his delivery was always such perfection. “He asked for the Radio Demon’s favourite, isn’t that right, sir?”
There was a faint buzz in the air as the edge of Vox’s screen flickered - and that was curious, especially the way Alastor could feel the energy crawl up his spine, electric. Perhaps the strange feeling that had come across him outside hadn’t been from the oncoming storm at all. But then in an instant it vanished as Vox broke out into laughter and downed the rest of his drink. Any pretence that this was an accidental meeting was gone, after all.
“Yeah, all right,” Vox said, and at least had the grace to look faintly embarrassed, “I was curious. So sue me! You’re a hard guy to pin down and I figured you wouldn’t appreciate me tracking you to your… work.”
Alastor’s ears flicked at that - at the notion that this silly mobile television could do such a thing. “You’d certainly be right about that,” he said, and nodded to Thomas to refill Vox’s glass. “But then, most would also consider any who follow me here to be either stupid or suicidal - so which are you, Vox?”
“Hey, neither!” Vox said immediately, indignant, “what, you never just want to have a nice conversation with someone?”
He had guts, that was for sure - since there was no doubt now that he knew exactly who Alastor was and what he was capable of. Alastor hummed and eyed Vox over the rim of his glass before taking another slow sip. Men often revealed themselves when they were forced to wait, either becoming offended and belligerent or spewing nonsense that showed their true unsavoury designs. Vox, though, simply stared at him for a few moments more before exhaling a sharp puff of air and turning back to the bar to nurse his fresh whisky, expression relaxing into something faintly rueful. “I’ve been down here a while now,” Vox said, looking down at his drink as he swirled the liquid within absently. “And I’m doing pretty well making a name for myself; I’m used to the cutthroat life, you know? And actually it’s better in Hell because you don’t have to worry about the cops - no one gives a shit when you need to off someone to get things done your way, or use a little extra… creative persuasion.” He gave a quiet laugh, sharp teeth an oddly electric glow in the dim light of the room.
Alastor’s smile widened, and he leant forward to rest his forearms against the edge of the bar. The sudden proximity made Vox glance back up, startled, and Alastor edged in even further, just to see if Vox would flinch back. He did not, so Alastor raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Do go on, then. What is it that you think we should converse about?”
It’s hardly as though he were opposed to the idea - there just simply weren’t many men in Hell who were on the same wavelength, so to speak.
“Well!” Vox immediately brightened, both figuratively and literally, and Alastor found himself wondering once more about how his face actually worked. Could one simply turn him off? How did he drink, for that matter? Television had still been a newfangled invention back when he’d been alive, and he’d been so immersed in the world of radio he’d never really considered that it would seriously catch on. “We’re both embodiments of our media, don’t you think? Of progress!” Alastor cocked his head to one side, smile straining a little in distaste.
“Is that so?”
Vox seemed to stumble over his words for only a moment before rallying himself. “I don’t think you get it, I may have carved out a niche for myself in television, but I still listened to your show ! For years! I had to travel all over the country for my … work— ” And Alastor noted the hesitation, then, and wasn’t that a curious detail to return to another time! “I remember your voice, your taste in songs, the little tricks you used in your interviews!” Vox’s hands were waving wildly again, so genuinely emotive Alastor couldn’t help but be somewhat charmed. He could sense the power, the potential - had been sensing it, he now knew, since before he even entered the bar. “Of course I recognised you the second I heard your show down here - even if you were torturing overlords at the time, which—” Vox visibly swallowed then, sharp teeth digging briefly into his lower lip, “—which was really something, by the way.”
If Alastor had been anyone else, perhaps this would have come across as creepy. Actually, he had to admit he found himself preening a little. He’d always loved attention, after all.
“Always nice to meet a fan,” he said, and reached across with his glass to clink it against Vox’s, “but I fail to see how this relates to progress. Or, indeed, to Hell.” Alastor was not, in principle, opposed to the concept - why, radio had been quite the cutting edge technology as he’d been growing up! - but there seemed to be little merit in changing a perfectly good thing, no matter what was going on in the world upstairs.
“As weird as this body is,” Vox said, with surprisingly good humour for someone with an appliance for a head, “I got it for a reason. You were a master of what you did? So was I! I’ve got plans and, well,” the look he cast Alastor then was appraising, but the underlying respect was certainly sincere. “I feel like everyone could benefit from a like-minded friend to bounce ideas off from time to time, you know?”
Alastor rarely found himself at a loss for words, but for once he wasn’t quite sure what to make of this particular sinner. So he laughed - laughed until his lungs wheezed, clutching one hand to his chest as Thomas, clearly unimpressed, turned to busy himself with something at the back of the bar while Vox simply watched him expectantly. Perhaps he was both stupid and suicidal!
Alastor had to admit, though, he was certainly amusing.
“All right,” he said on a whim - between giggles - because why the hell not? As he dabbed at the corner of his eyes with a clawed finger, that electric frisson skittered over his skin again. Vox’s grin was magnetic. Much like his voice, actually - it was rather a shame he was so literally attached to the medium of television because he could certainly be a hit on the radio waves. Subject to content, of course. But it seemed he had his own designs, and Alastor actually found himself to be… interested. Copycats - of whom he’d met several - were assuredly dull and never anything other than a disappointment, so the fact that Vox’s unique brassy ambition held the potential for some real lasting entertainment felt like something he’d rather enjoy having a front row seat for.
Perhaps the newfangled picture box had a point, after all.
“It’s always worth making the acquaintance of a future fellow overlord,” he said with a delicate shrug, taking a sip of his whisky as he watched the play of expressions across Vox’s screen with a delighted smile that he hid behind his glass. The shock and then disbelief, the realisation shifting into elation, then finally the pride and determination evidenced in his wide smile and brief little sparks of invisible static that ran up the back of Alastor’s neck to the tips of his ears. “Especially one I won’t need to disembowel live on air!” Vox’s darling little antenna positively vibrated at that, though Alastor politely held back to urge to reach out and flick one. "That is your goal, is it not?"
In fact he seemed a little too easy to read, perhaps, especially for an aspiring overlord - but Alastor could assist him with that. Though judging by the power he could sense, Vox already had plenty of sinners under his control despite how fresh he still was. Polish, that would come with experience. It was rather gratifying seeing him still raw and bloody, as it were! And on that note—
“Yeah,” Vox was saying now, drink seemingly forgotten as he pivoted fully to face Alastor, eyes afire and sharp claws digging into the flesh of his palm as he clenched his fist, “Yeah, I knew you’d get me - in fact if you ever want to come and see what I’m working on—”
Alastor was, he would freely admit, something of a chatterbox - a necessary trait for a radio host, in any case - but more than that he considered himself to be a conversationalist. He enjoyed talking at length, especially with a captive audience - but even that tended to get old without adequate back and forth. Leaning one elbow on the bar he rested his chin in his hand, smile growing as Vox began to expound enthusiastically about the small television studio he’d set up. And, oh, it turned out Vox was just as much of a talker as himself! Vivid and entertaining without falling into being overly verbose, voice smooth and pleasing to the ear while clearly never forgetting that he was talking to someone, rather than at them. Vox welcomed Alastor’s interjections, attentive to his questions no matter how dry or teasing they might be (“And what real benefit does seeing a murder have over simply hearing it? The mind imagining its own horrors is half the fun!”) and, he had to concede, was on the verge of winning him over with the concept of cooking shows.
All right, Alastor was more than a little charmed. Yes, there was no doubt Vox would go places, no doubt at all.
It was only when Thomas politely declined to refill their glasses any further that he realised two things: firstly that hours had flown by, the bar’s usual closing time long since past, and secondly that he was supposed to be meeting with Rosie the next— no, this very morning. Not that he needed sleep - or, indeed, usually bothered attempting to do so at all - but regardless she would inevitably somehow know. Still, she would understand - she always did, and he knew she’d love to hear about this encounter. Why, it was the most interesting thing to happen this year! Potentially this decade, if his instincts were correct - and they usually were.
“My apologies for keeping you both so late!” Alastor leapt lightly to his feet and twirled his microphone in one hand before setting it against the floor. “Put everything on my tab, Thomas, along with some extra for keeping you open for so long!”
Vox was already starting to object as he stood, but was sharp enough to know a lost cause when he saw one and instead insisted on taking care of things next time. Amusingly smooth, already making sure to lock in a guarantee of a second meeting before they parted ways.
“That would be delightful,” Alastor said, and his smile almost flickered when a moment later he realised he genuinely meant it. “You did promise to show me your studio, after all. I fear my expectations are now quite high!”
"I'll be looking forward to it." Vox had a spring to his step as he lead them outside into the deserted alleyway, the sky above now such a dark crimson as to be almost black. A soft but persistent rain had begun to fall at some point during the evening, and Alastor hovered inside the doorway as Vox let out an amusing garbled yelp and fumbled for an umbrella. He supposed it made sense that electronics were an even worse mix with water than his own suit. How dreadfully inconvenient! Vox was eyeing the sky dubiously as a long, low crack of thunder rumbled, and a delightful frisson of energy hung in the air.
With a snap of his fingers Alastor manifested an umbrella of his own - and perhaps he was showing off a little, just to see Vox's huge and overly emotive eyes widen and lock back onto him, impressed.
“And here I was about to offer to share,” Vox said with a lopsided, somewhat regretful grin, "but anyway— thanks." His tone shifted to something more subdued, with a quiet warmth and sincerity to it that was strangely honest, “for tonight. It was a pleasure to meet you, Alastor.”
After a brief moment of hesitation Vox proffered his free hand, palm up, and there was a questioning openness to it.
An invitation, not an expectation.
Alastor took it.