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The scene in front of Vox is a ragged mess of blood bones and feathers. One of Velvette's projects he was told, an emergency step in for something that got kicked off the roster after the most recent extermination.
A snarl twists Vox's mechanical features as he looks at the demolition in front of him. She said it was an emergency, one of her girls having picked a poor sod off the street who only barely survived the six month early purge.
Velvette said she contacted him as soon as she realised.
Something ugly twists into Vox's chest, not anger not pity, just… Bad. A thousand electrical signals telling him something is deeply wrong.
Alastor is not supposed to look like that.
It usually feels good to see him get all roughed up, so why is it so wrong now? God, he fucking deserves it.
Maybe it's something about Alastor's face, his eyes scrunched close in the way of someone who has not passed out, but is in too much pain to be fully coherent. Maybe it's the way he's still smiling. Still smiling. Strained and ugly and wide.
OR MAYBE IT'S THE GIANT EXTERMINATOR WINGS STRINGED TO HIS BACK.
The stitching is neat, too neat for the way blood, red and gold, stains the dark grey feathers. It's already healing together with the sinner's flesh.
What– what is he even supposed to do with this? Years, YEARS, of trying to beat Alastor and he's just delivered on a silver platter like this. And Vox..
Vox isn't okay with this, Vox doesn't want it he realises with a shock.
What's the point if it wasn't him that got Alastor in this state in the first place?
Not just Velvette's little wing project, but also whatever bigshot angel it was that originally beat the crap out of the radio demon, stand between him and winning.
One of his sensors pings, someone is talking to him.
"Vox? VOX!!" Velvette yells into his face, making her neatly manicured nails tap-tap-tap against his screen.
"I don't have all day, you with me?! Ya piece of rust still zoning out?" She waves a hand in front of his screen. He knows she means well underneath the yelling, and the sudden loss of this important project is getting her on edge, but right now his nerves are running painfully thin.
"Let him go." Vox says. His voice sounds almost calm.
Velvette rolls her eyes, "Is that a joke!? I still need him for a project you fucker! Are you on drugs, or did someone lobotomize you behind my back? Cross your wires wrong or whatever? You can have him after I'm done in two weeks."
Velvette pauses for a moment, a moment in which Vox becomes starkly aware of how relatively recent her joining the Vees has been, then she continues on, less aggressive this time,
"Listen, I know you have some sort of weird thing going on with the guy, Val told me enough, but you and I both know I need to push this line through or else Val can't roll his promotional and our quarterly sales will be in the gutter. And trust me I would've told you earlier if I knew what they were cooking up down here."
Numbers and statistics immediately pop into his mind. She's right, he knows she's right. They'd been depending a little too heavily on this exhibition, he thinks now, and with the simple bad luck of a few angels getting loose where they shouldn't have…
"Can't you find a different fucking 'model'?" He throws back at her.
She rolls her eyes, "Yes, and a different set of fucking wings while I'm at it sure, those bad boys have pretty much healed into him by now."
"There's enough corpses around I'm sure you can figure something out." He sounds somewhat cold and detached. It's an art.
Velvette frowns, "Since, when do you care this much about the bloody radio demon? I thought you wanted him dead.
Wait, was Val right.. did you..?" she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
"What! NO, no. We didn't. And I do want him dead thank you very much, just…" god, he hates having to say it, "not like this."
Velvette's face softens slightly, it passes fast as she loudly sighs, "Fine, you take care of him then, do whatever."
Then she turns on her heel and starts yelling around the room again. And Vox is left.. alone, with Alastor. Alone in a crowded room.
Just all the things he could do to the other sinner while he's weakened like this.. Vox can't say he doesn't think about it, doesn't relish the thought of putting the high and mighty Alastor somewhere even lower than in his place.
He doesn't do it.
The only contact he initiates is as he wraps his arm around Alastor's shoulder, supporting him as he tries to drag the body towards the exit.
The 'body' is helping minimally. He can hear the faint hiss of static in the air once he enters the more quiet white hallways, there's no way this motherfucker is passed out. And he's really heavy and Vox is sort of starting to regret his previous choices. He must look ridiculous like this, struggling to keep the two of them upright.
"Maybe try to help, asshole? It'd be really embarrassing if people knew the radio demon himself couldn't even walk himself to the exit."
Wonder by wonder the walk becomes slightly easier after.
Maybe, Vox should've gotten someone else to do this for him, some poor employee whose hands are more replaceable and less snack shaped than Vox's. He can see Alastor stare through his half lidded eyes.
On the other hand, the contact is exhilarating. The way he can pick up on Al's little huffs of air, the way he can feel the other demon's warmth against his side, hell, even knowing its Alastor is.. divine.
There's something about it that makes it worth it to nearly break his face against the doorframe of the elevator.
He enjoys it while it lasts, it's not like he'll ever be this close to his nemesis again, so might as well revel in it while he can.
"So, can you walk the rest of the way on your own or what?"
They've gotten there in the end, the crappy fire exit doors that separate Voxtech building from shady alleyway, with a background of screaming and pain.
There is a loud hiss of static.
"I'll manage." The words come out strained and low, the first time Vox has heard him speak since his retreat.
Slowly he peels away from Vox and stands, leaning heavily against the wall.
His silhouette, painted clearly against harsh artificial light, is jarring. The wings look weathered and uncanny on his frame, like a stain of blood on a digital image.
Then Vox turns around, "Sure, whatever you say Al," and closes the door behind him.