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The broadcasting tower looms over Pentagram City's entertainment district like a rusted up middle finger aimed at Heaven. Vox stands at its base, glaring at the skeletal framework that somehow still functions despite looking as if a slight breeze could bring it back to scrap metal.
Three months in Hell, and this… is rock bottom: answering a help wanted ad scrawled on a bathroom stall in what he desperately hopes is just ketchup.
TECHNICIAN NEEDED. BROADCASTING EQUIPMENT. INQUIRE AT TOWER BASE. SERIOUS APPLICANTS ONLY (NO IDIOTS).
The shack at the tower's base looks like someone had sneezed spare parts into a vaguely building-shaped pile. Vox pushes open the door and immediately regrets it as the smell hits him—burnt electronics, sulfur, and something which might be a dead possum.
"MOTHERFUCKER!" someone yelps from the back. "Cock-sucking vacuum tubes—"
An explosion rocks the shack. Smoke billows out, followed by a demon who looks like someone had crossed a ferret with an electrical fire.
The demon stumbles out, fur singed, eyes wild. He spots Vox and freezes. "What? If you're here about the noise, tell the overlord three blocks down he can tongue my ass until the heat death of the universe. If you're—" He pauses, pointing up at him. "Holy FUCK, what happened to your head?"
Vox says nothing, just stares back. He gets that at least 4 times today, stopped counting 2 months ago.
"…okay, not a talker. Got it." The ferret demon scratches his ear, leaving soot. "You know anything about radio transmitters?"
"I was a talk show host. Prime time. I know broadcasting."
The ferret demon squints at Vox's screen. "That a working television?"
"Fully functional."
"Huh." He considers this. "I'm Spark. You're hired. Last guy got electrocuted." He points at a smoldering ash pile in the corner. "That's Steve….he's still putting himself back together. Try not to step in him. Job pays twenty hell-bucks a week."
Twenty hell-bucks. That is barely enough for food that probably won't poison him. Vox looks down at his deteriorating suit—the expensive one he'd died in, now held together by denial and spite.
"Everything in this shack is trying to kill you," Spark continues, "the wiring hasn't been up to code since codes were invented, and sometimes the equipment screams. Just ignore that."
"…the equipment screams."
"Yeah. We think it's haunted. Stopped asking questions after the third exorcism failed." Spark heads to his office. "Don't touch anything on fire, and for fuck's sake, don't broadcast anything without clearing it with me first."
—
Six hours later, Vox is elbow-deep in a transmitter that predates the Depression, actually focused on something he is good at for the first time in three months.
That's when he hears it.
Music bleeds through the ancient speakers—jazz that is all brass and swagger. Then comes the voice.
"Good evening, you magnificent degenerates! This is Alastor, the Radio Demon, coming to you live from the heart of Hell's entertainment district!"
Vox's hands freeze.
He knows that name. Everyone who has been in Hell for more than a week knows that name. Alastor the Radio Demon—one of the most powerful overlords in Pride, infamous for his broadcasts, his body count, and his smile that apparently never stops. The guy who had shown up around twenty or so years ago and overthrown overlords who had apparently ruled for centuries.
"We have a SPECTACULAR program lined up for you sinners this evening! Music to make you weep, commentary to make you think, and if we're very lucky, someone will do something magnificently stupid that I can mock tomorrow!"
The laugh that follows is warm and rich and completely unhinged.
Vox finds himself leaning toward the speaker. The voice is…magnetic.
"Now then, let's discuss today's entertainment! I witnessed the most DELIGHTFUL carnage this afternoon—three overlords got into a territorial contest over six feet of sidewalk. SIX FEET! They destroyed two buildings and left a crater you could park a car in!"
Another laugh, rich with genuine amusement.
"The best part? None of them even managed to kill each other! Oh, they tried—ripped limbs off, melted faces, snapped bones—but by tomorrow night they'll all be back on their feet, limping around and pretending they won! Ah, the sweet poetry of meaningless conflict!"
Vox snorts despite himself. The Radio Demon's delivery is impeccable.
"But let's discuss something far more interesting—let's talk about BROADCASTING!"
Vox's screen brightens at that.
"Radio, my dear listeners, is the most intimate form of entertainment ever conceived. My voice comes directly into your space, and we create something together. I speak, you imagine, and in that collaboration, we make MAGIC!"
The voice drops lower, taking on an almost sensual kind of tone.
"Radio doesn't need flash. We don't show you anything because we don't NEED to. We engage your MIND. Your imagination. That beautiful thing between your ears that most of you have forgotten how to use!"
Pretentious, but good.
"We are the theater of the mind! Every word I speak, YOU paint your own picture. I provide the skeleton—YOU create the masterpiece!"
A perfectly timed pause.
"That's intimacy. That's collaboration. That's ART!"
When the voice returns, it drips with condescension.
"Now, I know some youngsters might be thinking, 'But what about television?' And to that I say—how absolutely ADORABLE!"
Vox's screen flares with static.
"Television! That flashy little medium that has to SHOW you everything because it doesn't trust you to imagine it yourself! It's like a children's picture book that assumes you can't read!"
"Ohhhhh, fuck you," Vox mutters.
"Television is radio for people who can't pay attention! Training wheels for the imagination-impaired! 'Ooh, look at the pretty pictures!' Meanwhile, radio is creating ACTUAL art, treating our audience like intelligent beings! Television probably keeps the very stupid and very drunk entertained. But for those who appreciate elegance? Radio will ALWAYS be supreme!"
As the broadcast continues on, Vox sits there, feeling something he hasn't felt in three months.
The burning desire to prove someone wrong.
Spark pokes his head out from the doorway. "You good? You're glowing and the equipment's humming weird."
"M' fine."
"You’re listening to the Radio Demon, aren’t you?" Spark's eyes narrow. "You've got that 'I'm about to do something stupid' look."
"What kind of range does this tower have?"
"Oh no."
"Spark. What kind of range?"
"Citywide, but—"
"Can I patch into specific frequencies?"
"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, I am BEGGING you to reconsider—"
"How do I do it?"
Spark stares at him, then sighs. "You're gonna die again, aren't you? Fine. If you're determined to commit suicide by radio demon, at least let me show you how."
—
Four days later, during Alastor's evening broadcast, Vox makes his move.
He waits until the Radio Demon is mid-sentence about "divine purity of audio." Then he patches in, his screen glowing white-hot.
"Good evening listeners, this is Vox, interrupting your regularly scheduled circle-jerk to remind everyone that radio is just sound. Just fucking SOUND. Television is sound AND vision. We're literally everything you are plus MORE. Enjoy jerking off to your 'theater of the mind,' grandpa. Some of us evolved."
He cuts the connection.
Spark stares. "Did you just call the Radio Demon GRANDPA—"
Every piece of equipment goes apeshit.
Lights strobe, the speakers shriek, transmitters make dying elephant noises. The entire tower groans.
"WHAT DID I SAY—" Spark screams.
The front door explodes.
Shadows flood the shack—inky darkness with endless weight, with teeth. And from that writhing mass, a figure materializes.
Impossibly tall, red suit sharp as a blade. A smile too wide for any face, antlers so large they scrape the ceiling. Glowing red eyes that lock onto Vox like targeting lasers.
"YOU."
The voice carries the full weight of power. The equipment around them rattles with it, creaking. The ash pile that used to be Steve scatters in the sudden wind.
Spark squeaks and dives out the window.
Vox's instincts scream to run.
Instead, he stands his ground.
"Yeah," he says, forcing steadiness into his voice. "That was me."
The figure's grin flickers—almost imperceptibly. He tilts his head, the motion sharp and unnatural.
Then, as though catching himself mid-rage, his posture straightens as much as it can. He brushes ash from his sleeve, his voice suddenly smooth and theatrical, every syllable practiced for an invisible audience.
"Well!" he declares, all brightness and radio polish. "Now this is interesting! I interrupt my own broadcast to pay a little visit, and what do I find? A bold little interloper with a mouth and apparently no sense of self-preservation!"
He taps his cane against the floor, so very small compared to the rest of him, grin widening until it nearly splits his face. "Alastor—the one and only Radio Demon, host of Hell's finest frequencies, and the sole reason this wretched city hasn't died of utter boredom!"
Vox realizes that his voice still sounds like a radio transmission even in person. Sort of like himself, actually.
Alastor takes one step closer. His eyes glow hotter, scanning him like a spotlight. Then, he freezes.
The grin falters—not in fury, but fascination.
"Well now," he murmurs, voice lowering. "What is this?"
He leans in, squinting. The flicker of static reflects in his eyes. "Your head…" He blinks, realization dawning, a spark catching fire. "Oh, that's fascinating."
He crouches slightly, examining the light playing across Vox's glass screen. "Is that—no, it couldn't be—how delightful!"
The murderous aura evaporates in an instant, replaced by gleeful curiosity. He shrinks down to meet Vox's size, matching him.
"Your HEAD!" Alastor exclaims, suddenly animated as hell. "It's FUNCTIONAL! An actual working television integrated into your biology!"
The stag demon circles Vox like a shark. "The specifications—the picture tubes alone must be—how do you even POWER this? Do you have internal broadcasting capability?!"
Vox's processors struggle. He had thought he would be vaporized by now, not whatever this is. "The fuck—"
"The TECHNOLOGY!" Alastor examines Vox's screen from inches away, his eyes wide with manic curiosity. "The miniaturization required to fit all this into a head-sized form factor—REMARKABLE! When you died, did it replace your entire head or merge with existing neural structure? How do you process visual input AND audio simultaneously? Can you pick up MY broadcasts?!"
"...Sometimes?"
"MARVELOUS!" Alastor claps, the sound echoing unnaturally in the small space. "And you hijacked my frequency—which shouldn't be possible with equipment this outdated—" He gestures dismissively at the ancient transmitter. "—but you managed it anyway! The ingenuity! Tell me, can you modulate your own signal output or are you limited to receiving?"
He grabs Vox's head without warning, tilting it to examine from different angles, studying the screen like it is the most fascinating thing he has seen in decades.
"Get your—fucking hands off me," Vox snaps, jerking back. The broadcaster is practically hanging off him and it is truly freaking him out.
"Ah! Language!" Alastor sounds delighted rather than offended. He releases Vox but doesn't step back, eyes still locked on the screen. "My goodness, such hostility! You interrupt MY broadcast, call me GRANDPA, make some adorably incorrect statement about television's supposed superiority, and now you're being shy about your technical specifications?"
"I'm not shy, I'm—" Vox stops. "Wait. You're not pissed?"
"Pissed?" Alastor throws back his head and laughs, the sound filling the entire shack. "My dear fellow, I am delighted! Do you have any idea how boring it gets when nobody challenges me? When everyone just nods along like frightened sheep?" His grin sharpens with hunger. "But you! You actually crashed my show to argue! Incorrectly, catastrophically incorrectly, but still!"
"Television isn't fucking incorrect—"
"It absolutely IS!" Alastor declares cheerfully. "Radio engages imagination! It's intimate, pure! Television just shows you everything like you're too stupid to picture it yourself. Where's the artistry? Where's the respect for your audience's intelligence?"
Heat crawls through Vox's circuits. Not just anger—something burning, bright.
"Television shows you everything because it CAN," he shoots back, voice stronger now. "We don't hide behind 'imagination'—we deliver the complete experience. Sound AND vision. That's not less artistic, that's objectively MORE."
"More CLUTTER!"
"More INFORMATION. More IMMERSION!"
"More HAND-HOLDING for people with no imagination!"
"More EVOLUTION! Radio is just television too scared to show anything!"
They are nose-to-screen now. Vox has stepped forward, not back. Arguing with one of Hell's most powerful overlords instead of doing anything sensible.
And he doesn't give a single fuck.
For the first time in three months—three months of emptiness, of being nobody—he finally has something to say.
Alastor's eyes glow brighter, his grin stretching impossibly wide. "Oh, this is wonderful! You actually believe it! You genuinely think your little medium is superior! Like a child defending their favorite toy! How absolutely precious!"
"Don't fucking patronize me—"
"Oh, but you make it so EASY!" Alastor's tone drips condescension, but his eyes sparkle with genuine interest. "Such passion for your inferior medium! Such conviction! Tell me, what were you topside? Before you became this delightful hybrid of demon and cutting-edge 1950s technology?"
"Talk show host," Vox mutters. "Prime time. Had the ratings, the sponsors, everything."
"Ah! A performer!" Alastor's eyes light up even more. "That explains the confidence! The desperate need for visual validation!"
The man rises slightly, one hand sweeping outward in a grand, mocking gesture toward the shack around them.
"You arrived at the very moment your little medium was beginning to bloom, only to find yourself here—" his smile widens, all teeth, "—tinkering with relics from before my time, in this quaint establishment… earning, what—twenty hell-bucks a week?"
"Fifty hell-bucks," Vox snaps, his screen flickering with irritation at being underestimated (accurately).
Alastor pauses.
Then—
"Oh! My sincerest apologies." The voice is honeyed in mock sympathy. "Fifty. Well, that changes everything. I can hardly imagine how you endure such overwhelming luxury!"
"Hell's not exactly rolling out opportunities for new arrivals," Vox bites out.
"No, I suppose not!" Alastor taps his cane thoughtfully. "Though you showed remarkable ingenuity hijacking my frequency. Crude, yes. Insulting, absolutely. Completely wrong about television's supposed merits, obviously. But effective! And brave, in a stupid, suicidal sort of way!" His eyes glint with something dangerous. "How long have you been here? Three months, you said?"
Christ, this guy can talk. And coming from Vox, that's fucking saying something.
"Yeah."
"THREE MONTHS and you're only NOW making yourself known?" Alastor looks genuinely surprised. "My dear fellow, you've been wasting your potential! With that remarkable head—that fascinating technology—and broadcasting experience, you should be making quite the splash. Instead—" He gestures at the broken equipment, the scattered ashes, the general atmosphere of electrical despair. "—you're here, playing with antiques from the 1920s. Tell me, does it hurt? Using equipment this primitive when you're from the modern era?"
Vox's voice flickers with frustrated static. "It's like trying to paint with a rock."
"HA!" Alastor's laugh is genuine. "Oh, I like that! Yes, I imagine it would be! All that modern knowledge, all that advanced training, and you're stuck with vacuum tubes and mechanical switches!" He leans on his cane, studying Vox with renewed fascination. "You know, I died in 1933. Radio was king then—still is, obviously—but the technology has barely changed down here. Hell doesn't exactly encourage innovation. Most overlords prefer things to stay… traditional."
"That's fuckin' stupid."
"Perhaps!" Alastor agrees cheerfully. "But it's also convenient for those of us who mastered the old ways. Why innovate when you're already on top?" The demon places a clawed finger to the bottom of his own chin, tapping. "Though I must admit, seeing what the modern era has produced—" He gestures at Vox's head. "—it's fascinating. Inferior to radio in terms of artistic merit, naturally, but fascinating nonetheless!"
Vox's screen heats, static crawling along the edges. "Television isn't inferior, you pretentious pri—"
"Ah ah!" Alastor waggles a finger. "We're having such a civilized debate!" His expression shifts, becoming calculating. "Tell me, Vox—that IS your name, yes? From the Latin word 'voice'? How delightfully on the nose—how would you like to see what a REAL broadcasting setup looks like? Proper equipment? Well, proper by 1930s standards, which is still leagues above—" He gestures dismissively at the ancient transmitter. "—this garbage?"
Vox's screen flickers with suspicion. "…What's the catch?"
"Catch?" Alastor laughs like Vox has told a delightful joke. "My dear fellow, I don't want your money—you clearly don't have any. I don't want your soul. Well, not yet anyway, and you haven't offered!" His eyes glint with dangerous amusement.
"I simply want to be entertained! And you’ve done so twice now: first by crashing my broadcast with that wonderfully wrong comment about television's supposed superiority, and second by actually ARGUING with me about it like your afterlife doesn't depend on my goodwill!"
He leans closer, smile splitting further even more… into something that looks like it could slice reality itself.
"Keep being interesting, keep entertaining me with your adorably incorrect opinions about your flashy picture box being better than radio, and I'll show you what real broadcasting looks like. Consider it… educational charity for the hopelessly misguided! I'm DYING to see what someone with modern television knowledge can do with proper equipment. Even if that knowledge is fundamentally flawed!"
He straightens up, spinning his microphone cane.
"Or—you can stay here in this delightful shack, making fifty WHOLE hell-bucks a week, working with equipment that predates your grandparents, slowly dissolving into Hell's background static until you eventually become the next cautionary tale in the corner. Your choice, my dear picture box!"
It is definitely a trap. Everything in Hell is a trap.
But standing there, charged under all the static, he realizes the risk finally sounds like a real option.
He meets Alastor's glowing eyes, that grin like a razor. "Fine," he says, voice steady. "Show me your setup. And when I prove you wrong about television, I want you to admit it. On air."
Alastor's laugh is pure delight, echoing through every speaker. "Oh–ho–ho, you absolutely precious thing! You think you're going to prove ME wrong! How adorable!" He claps his hands together. "I accept your utterly doomed challenge! This is going to be spectacular entertainment!"
He turns toward the destroyed door, then pauses, glancing back.
"Do try not to disappoint me. I'd hate to lose my new favorite source of entertainment so quickly! Ta–ta!"
Then he dissolves into shadow, his laughter rolling through the shack like the world's most unsettling sign-off.
Vox stands there, surrounded by sparking equipment and lingering darkness.
And slowly—genuinely—he smiles.
His hand moves unconsciously toward the transmitter, fingers already tracing connections, planning new modifications to what he was doing beforehand. Already thinking three steps ahead.
Spark pokes his head back through the window cautiously. "You're… not dead?"
"Apparently not."
"And you're SMILING? After calling the Radio Demon grandpa and arguing with him about MEDIA THEORY!?"
"Yeah." Vox looks at his reflection in a broken monitor—his screen bright and steady. "Yeah, I am."
For the first time since arriving in Hell, Vox feels like maybe—just maybe—he could actually build something here.
Even if it starts with proving the most powerful, most pretentious radio broadcaster in Hell catastrophically wrong about television's superiority.
All while working with equipment that makes him want to rip his stupid, stupid fucking head off his shoulders.
It'd be worth it.