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Obnoxious arrays of thousands of pixels dance across each luminescent screen, distastefully plaguing Hell. Regardless of the ring, the neighborhood, or the time of day, there is always that pricking glow that burns into every hellish resident’s muddled brain. Even in towns loyal to older customs, there always seems to be a glass-eyed bastard with his eyes pried onto a clunky screen of endless everythings. It’s exhausting to see, but it’s routine.
Alastor was, very adamantly so, disgusted by the sight. In most cases, he utilized his teleportation and shadows to hop around spots with more tasteful modes of entertainment–but it seems that after seven years of seeing nothing of Hell, it was around every corner he had marked as ‘safe’ prior. The influence of the Vee’s has provided a screen of advertisement for their latest streaming endeavor to even the most secluded corners of the underworld. Alastor recalls Vox and his demon form, his face being his introduction to the nuisance of a television screen. It wasn’t his fault, of course. Hell, if Alastor could’ve picked his hellish form it would not have been in the shape of nature’s most classic prey. He was not prey, mark his words, he was the predator. Still, a predator has their habitats, and television was most definitely not part of that ecosystem. Vox’s eyes weren’t akin to the already complex spheres of swirling browns or hazels, showing one’s intentions or judgment. No, Vox’s eyes were built from grains of red, green, and blue all sickeningly melted together. He never enjoyed looking into that man’s eyes, it was especially taxing. Eyes already had an unnerving glow of corruption behind them even without the digital layer. But now that sick fuck has seemingly made it his mission to get everyone accustomed to the sight.
It’s nauseating. Still, he decides there’s no need to fret–he is more than capable of dismissing the crawling feeling of blue light radiating on his skin and the excessive gleam of Hell’s latest ‘movie’ stars. His mission today is to hop across sectors of the Pentagram that he may have become unaccustomed to over his leave of absence. Nothing flashy, of course. A hop from various rooftops to trusted alleyways would be more than enough to assess the city once again.
He’s on his fourth location, atop a rickety fire escape, neatly tucked into the shadows. He overlooks a territory that now belongs to the Carmine’s— nothing too special, though. He looks below to newly cemented sidewalks that were once preserved cobblestone. What an insult to charm, he thinks. Sinners walk the streets with cellular devices in their hands. A miserable sight, truly. The streets are occupied with modern automotive, blaring music that scratches at his ears. A rusty silver sedan passes from under the railing he is tucked behind and he hears the screech of a man’s excessive and groping vocally fried music through the car windows. His ears flatten down momentarily as a wave of tight discomfort rolls from the base of his neck and down his spine, making his lips tighten together in a still unsettling grin. Utterly distasteful form of music. He takes a final sigh as he readjusts his shoulders and solidifies his smile once again.
Surely there’s more territory that’s less atrocious to recover back into his stomping ground, he dismisses the thought for now as he steps back into the black of his shadow to take himself to one of his final stops.
The streets drip with the smell of iron that sticks to his tongue immediately upon entrance. Not a necessarily bad development, though, he finds himself almost savoring the taste. He remains flush against the dark brick that lines the outside of a shop alleyway as the rustling pattern of elegant heels and leather Oxfords (the type of leather–he can likely guess is not of a farm-side influence) click down the sidewalk. He is in Cannibal Town, a location in the Pentagram he’s glad to know is not as unruly as other districts. Nothing seems to have changed as he peers around to the emporium he aims to end his day on. If anything, the only thing of importance that differs is there is a large slash over the ‘Franklin’ in Franklin and Rosie’s Emporium. Odd. Last he heard, her husband’s name was Howard… He chuckles fondly to himself and, under his breath, notes, “Oh, Rosie, you darling little devil…” And trudges forward.