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Mammon sighed as he rose from his lazy slouch over his desk. He knew his little sinner was going to argue with him. Honestly, he enjoyed it most days, but he didn’t want to do it every year when it was Vox’s mandated annual vacation week. It had taken Mammon a while (and more favors than he’d ever admit) to get the other sins to agree to write it into his boyfriend’s contract with Hell’s royalty. If not for that, the only way he would get designated alone time with Vox would be through a corporate takeover. Sure, Mammon was a greedy guy—the greedy guy—but that doesn’t mean he wants to mix business and pleasure. Especially not when Vox is sure to try and electrocute him in a less-than-fun way.
Mammon taps his fingers eagerly against the latest webcam Vox had sent him. It’s shiny and custom-made in green and gold. His little sinner knows him so well. The bells on his jester hat jiggle as he waits for the call to come through. He’s been scheming about this all day. It’s that time of year. Time for their annual vacation. This year, he’s not going to fucking visit Pride! Lucifer can eat shit with his cease-and-desist letters!
The webcam’s green light flickered on, and Mammon was greeted by a toothy, sharp smile—one he returned with gusto. “Hey, babe, you swimming in money yet?” It was an old jab, from their earliest days, eventually leading to them dating.
Vox snorts and rolls his eyes. “Mammon, we’ve been over this, just because I choose to use a digital e-currency tied to crypto doesn’t mean I’m poor. Besides,” Vox adds petulantly, “you get to print your own currency, and that’s just cheating.”
“Aww, don’t be sore, Voxxy,” Mammon drawls, watching the little blue spark flick over Vox’s antenna. “When you overthrow Luci, you can print your own money, too. Speaking of that daft cunt, we should talk about the vacation plans this year!”
Vox blinks. “That’s all taken care of, I booked us at—”
“No, no, no. Snore. Let’s try something different this year. You come see my digs, yeah?”
Vox leans in. For once, giving him his full attention. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, babe. It’s long past time I showed you all my cool shit. You should come to Greed!”
The soft, lyrical ringing of gentle glass on glass came as Vox rubbed his talons together, suspicion on his face. “Why the change in plans? Why can’t you come up to Pride?” he pressed.
“Because it’s fucking Pride, have you met Lucifer?” Mammon huffs. Vox blinks up at that. Of course, he hasn’t met Lucifer. The stupid duck head was an absolute recluse since Lilith left. “Well, he’s a total prick! Keeps sending me cease-and-desist letters even though LuLu Land is totally different from LuLu World! Why should that fucker get to hoard all the fun up in Pride?”
Pride is a trash heap anyway. It all looks glued together—no theme. It’s as neurotic as Lucifer. Sure, his boyfriend is there and has to stay, but that doesn’t mean Mammon’s going to rollover when they’re planning their vacation. He’s the Sin of Greed.
Vox let out a low sigh. “As much as I would love to see your ring, you know sinners aren’t allowed to—”
“Taken care of!” Mammon snaps his fingers, and a golden (gold-plated but who was checking) ticket to Greed floated gently down into his boyfriend’s hands. Vox’s screen blinked slowly, then a light grey static fuzz momentarily took over as he read the message: Passage to Greed. Non-transferrable. Non-refundable. No Questions Asked, Straight to the Greed Ring.
Hey, Mammon was a nice guy; he'd even made it a round trip. The other sins could suck it for calling him a cheapskate. He could be generous!
Mammon smirked at the cute little blat Vox’s speaker makes. “I—the power grid—I don’t know if it makes sense for me to be so far away from my backups—” Vox stumbles out. The usually poised businessman was taken off guard. Mammon prepared to sweep the control freak’s plans straight into the bin.
Mammon snapped his fingers, feeling the annoying itch from the loss of some of his stuff as he transported some of his back-up generators to the Pride from the faint whirl of Vox’s fans. He knew Vox could feel them connecting to his power grid. “Boom done!” Mammon says smugly. He wasn’t letting his little sinner wriggle out of this one.
“Any other problems I can solve for you on this Hellish afternoon, or are you gonna go get packed?”
Mammon could barely make out the curses Vox was spitting under his breath, but the slight twitch in the other’s screen was all the intel Mammon needed to know his boyfriend was irritated but not ready to argue. He’d seen it dozens of times before, and it never stopped being adorable. He couldn’t stop the fully bellied laugh as Vox mumbled out a grouchy goodbye.
“See ya tomorrow, Voxxy!” The feed cut to black. Mammon clapped his hands together. He had so much to get ready. He was going to wow Vox so badly he’d never want to leave Greed. Then Mammon could have all of his best stuff in one place, boyfriend included.
Vox could say a lot about his first impression of Greed, namely that it smelled like shit, but his sleep-deprived brain found it more efficient to write vague impressions into his memory bank for analysis later as he blinked sleepily at the courtyard in front of the elevator levels.
Mammon’s last-minute slapdash plan had completely thrown him off his schedule. He’d spent all night prior closing out business, making sure his back-up plans had back-up plans, and scaring his slightly more competent employees into submission as he planned his absence. Sure, the date was the same to start his mandatory vacation week, but well— Vox would be lying if he said he didn’t sneak some work in during his vacation, usually when Mammon was asleep, what his boyfriend didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him and his empire wasn’t going to grow itself!
But Greed was a curveball that required some additional planning. Sure, Vox might have powered the other Rings of Hell, but he was much less intimately involved in their grid structure. His ability to feel or manage the electricity stopped at the edges of Pride. This was one of the few long-standing arguments between him and Mammon over the years. Vox provided the designs for the power infrastructure in the other six rings, but Mammon wouldn’t let him do the same. Vox didn’t protest to his boyfriend overcharging on power in Greed; he’d been more than willing to give him a slice, but Mammon was too stubborn.
Now that he’s here, though, he can see he was abso-fucking-lutely correct that how Mammon was running power was awful. It was practically giving Vox a headache as he curiously reached towards one of the outlets by the Hellevators. He jumps back with a hiss, the voltage is all wrong and from even the brief touch, he can feel that the power lines are a tangled, fractured mess that Vox was more likely to get trapped in than to find his way through. He mentally added this to his notes for the next time Mammon refused to let him modernize and sell power in Greed.
Well, no quick jump to Mammon’s place to surprise him; it seemed Vox would have to do this the old-fashioned way as he walked towards the cars. When he doesn’t see an oppressive amount of green and gold waiting for him with confetti, he frowns. Surely Mammon didn’t expect him to find his way to his mansion, palace, whatever the fuck the ruler of Greed built for himself without an escort. Preferably a limo and an in-person reception, but fuck he’d take an arranged cab. Mammon fucking knew he couldn’t traverse the electrical grid down here. Vox might provide the power, but it wasn’t VoxTech built and he’d fry right through the jerry-rigged infrastructure that is prickling unpleasantly at his electrical senses. He narrows his eyes. The whole power grid down here feels like a fire hazard.
It’s only carefully honed instincts that make the back of his neck prickle. Someone is watching him, that jolts his sluggish brain into action. He’s used to eyes on him. Millions of eyes were always watching the carefully curated show, spoon-feeding them their opinions, but that was within his own domain, where he watched his viewers just as intensely. A camera on every street in the Entertainment District, carefully laid out in an arranged system to ensure no blind spots, so he could act as the omniscient eyes of god: all knowing and all seeing.
Down here in Greed, he felt blind, anxiety crawling under his skin as he groped for a sense that was only half there. Even the electricity sparked differently, unfamiliar and unsettling. Discomfort churned in his gut—Vox didn’t like it.
There’s a rather tall imp in a cowboy hat staring him down across the room. Great, a Podunk even down here. Nearly a century down here and Vox still doesn’t understand why some earth trends seem to have such sticking power with Hell’s denizens. Vox sighs, shakes his screen and paints on his public persona. A flash of light and a grin flash across his screen. He clutches his roller suitcase in his hand; it rattles over the cracked asphalt as Vox strolls forward with a smile, silently cursing Mammon again for making him carry his own luggage. Where was he anyways? He taps the heel of his shoe as he weaves through the crowds.
The one good thing about being in Greed is the relative anonymity. He’d love to up his broadcasts, but Mammon is much pickier about what Vox can and can’t sell in his ring. Honestly, all of the sins except Belphegor are complete control freaks in different ways. Beelzebub wants down to the molecular labels on everything in case someone eats it. Asmodeus, well, the less said about the time he tried to introduce him to Valentino, the better.
It’s strange not to be able to connect with his cameras and track his exact location at every moment. The absence leaves a silent void, anxiety prickling at his ports. He shrugs it off, standing two to three feet taller than the crowd. Dozens of families and partners reunite in front of the station, a display that at least thins the crowd. Now, Vox can see a row of taxies, harsh in sickly neon green, waiting along the cracked asphalt.
God. Vox was really going to have to ride in one of those. It’s been decades since he’s been forced to touch public transport. He could only imagine what disgusting fluids were lingering under the cushions. Valentino’s limo was disgusting enough and he arranged for daily deep cleans.
Vox half raises a hand to signal the first driver in the line when he’s interrupted. “Hey, partner,” Vox’s eyes flick to the left. The orange imp slithered closer. A long strand of wheat is dangling out of his mouth. “You’re looking a little lost there.”
“Not at all. Just waiting for my ride.” Vox tilts his screen towards the road.
“Say, you look familiar.” Ugh, a fan.
“I think you’re mistaken.” Vox dismisses taking a step closer to the taxis and brushing the encounter off, as he flips open his phone, his thumb lingering over Mammon’s number.
“I don’t think I am.” Vox ignores the imp, intending to brush off the encounter—until something firm presses between his shoulder blades. He stiffens immediately, a cold spike of fear overtaking carefully managed indifference. He looks up to find a predator’s grin. Oh shit. Vox had seriously miscalculated.
“This is angelic steel. Good enough for the Ars Goetia and should be more than enough to stop a shitty sinner like yourself. Mr. CEO of Voxtek.” He knew that was recognition in the imp’s strange, ringed, yellow eyes. “So let’s be real careful now. I wouldn't want an accident to harm your very important person."
Vox grimaces. Fucking Mammon. No one ever would have had the balls to even try him in the Entertainment District and here he was going to have to fry the upstart. His shoes weren’t even insulated. They were his new white leather ones. He’d worn them specifically in case Mammon wanted to take him dancing. His boyfriend did have a thing about spinning him around, and Vox would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.
So that left him with two options:
- Fry this imp and continue his way to Mammon’s place with ruined shoes that he could never get the smell of burned skin out of.
- Let this would-be kidnapper take him wherever, risking the unknown but giving himself a chance to escape later. Wariness prickles at the back of his mind—Velvette's voice echoing warnings about secondary locations. She’d been on a true crime kick Vox didn’t fully understand, but thankfully, she hadn’t caught on to the fact that Alastor was the New Orleans Axe murderer yet.
Frustration and uncertainty churn together; he hated not being fully in control. He hums quietly, weighing the pros and cons of both options. Velvette had threatened to switch all his cables if he came to her for another pair of ‘old man’ shoes in the next six months. He hasn’t even been here an hour yet.
“Now let’s not do anything you’d regret,” Vox says smoothly, letting go of his suitcase and holding his hands up peaceably. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. If you want my suitcase, you can take it.” And the VoxTag inside it so Vox can track this cowboy upstart down later at his own leisure and tear him limb from limb.
“This ain’t that kind of stick-up, pal,” the imp says, his yellow ringed eyes glittering, pleased with himself. “Word has it you’re one of the richest sinners in all of Pride. Makes a hellborn wonder what those partners of yours would pay for you.”
Curse his success, and now his bank—Oh, Mammon would hate having to part with any amount for Vox. The idea makes him smirk.
“What are you smiling about, screenhead? You try anything and I’ll have a bullet in each of your limbs faster than you can say Satan.”
“Nothing, just thinking that Greed has quite the welcome wagon, really living up to its name.”
The imp grunts and steps closer, nudging the gun between his shoulder blades as he shoves Vox forward before grabbing his loose suitcase. Vox doesn’t appreciate the rough handling as he’s manhandled into a shiny red convertible car. Honestly, he was expecting a horse or at least a pick-up truck, given his kidnapper’s aesthetic choices. It should feel degrading; he is an overlord after all, but he’s more curious than anything and with no cameras flashing in his face. He almost wants to see where this is going.
It certainly doesn’t hurt that his kidnapper is tall for an imp, and his snakelike angles and sharp eyes might be doing something for Vox. He’s not a shark, but a predator is a predator and Vox can’t help but touch dangerous things. The firm muscles Vox can feel on his chest as he’s almost bodily lifted the last few feet to the car don’t do anything to kill his interest.
The imp throws his suitcase carelessly into the backseat, one hand keeping the gun firmly pointed at Vox, the other on his steering wheel as he speeds into traffic with Hell’s standard regard for safety. All Vox can think is that Greed really sucks.
Velvette is used to anonymous numbers texting her. It’s part of the fun in collecting secrets—and adding stupid sinners with shit cybersecurity to her ruin-their-lives list. Still, this one pricks her attention, not just because it's from the wrath area code. Her thumb hovers before she snaps it open.
The text is blunt: Send $2 million to the location, or I start sending back electronic bits. The photo shows Vox tied up, a Carmine signature rifle pressed to his screen.
She’s off running towards Val’s sex dungeon before she even finishes reading. It’s been less than an hour since Vox left. How is he already up to his antennae in trouble? No, she shouldn’t even bother asking that her boys could find chaos in a soup aisle. Her heel taps as she waits for the elevator to descend to the basement of the tower.
“Out!” Velvette bellows, throwing Val’s latest plaything off his lap and towards the door.
“Doll-” Val starts, outraged. Velvette doesn’t let him get the words out before yanking him down by his exposed nipple chain. He hisses and she shoves her phone under his nose.
“Read this.”
Valentino’s eyebrows scrunch up in irritation, his eyes squinting under his red-tinted glasses. It takes him longer than it should as a grown man, and her heel taps nervously against the marble floor. Slowly, Val blinks up at her. “Kinky, I knew Vox was being stingy about what he was getting up to Mammon,” Valentino wriggles his eyebrows suggestively as he stares at the photo, before he squints at the text itself, “Of course, he’s into financial domination. I don’t see why you threw out a perfectly good whore for this.”
Velvette stares at him in disbelief. She wishes she could chalk this up to his bad eyesight; there was a reason he always sent voice memos, but she was pretty sure this was a failure of his brain cells to fire. “No, you daft bastard. This is a ransom note.”
Valentino blinks at her. The cigarette in his hand dropped ash. The horrid smell of melting polyester wafts up from the couch.
“Some fucker kidnapped Vox in Greed,” Velvette emphasises each word, dragging it out so Valentino is sure to register.
“It’s only been an hour, puta!” Valentino swears, one of his arms knocking over his tray with director notes and sending his script pages flying in all directions, along with his overly fruity pink cocktail. The room has gone silent. The pornstars and camera operators all watched them carefully. Velvette’s lip curls as she notices their audience, one hand flicking up to summon something sharp and pointed as purple knives loom down at the souls.
Valentino beats her to it. “Get out of here. We’re done filming for today.” His soul contractors scramble toward the exit like rats fleeing a sinking ship. The Overlord of Porn crosses both sets of arms. “So are we going to go down and shoot this bitch full of holes or what?”
“Vox is in Greed.” Velvette shouldn’t have to hold all the brain cells—usually that’s Vox’s job. She resents the responsibility. “The only way to add some holes to the cunt that was ballsy enough to snatch Vox is to get a ticket courtesy of the Prince of Greed himself.”
Valentino snaps something else out in Spanish. “You’ve got a plan already, chica, so get on with it.”
She pulls out Mammon’s number and dials. It rings four times before it finally connects. She’s greeted by an obnoxious Australian accent. “Hey, hey, babes, Voxxy on his way yet?” An explosion that sounds suspiciously like a confetti cannon sounds in the background. God, why did Vox have such shit taste in men?
“Vox has been kidnapped,” Velvette states bluntly, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
“Hah, funny. Tell Vox faking a kidnapping won’t get him out of vacation.” The cunt hangs up. Velvette stares at her phone’s dark screen. He did NOT just hang up on her.
She redials. Voicemail. She fumes. Valentino squeaks behind her. She narrows her eyes at the phone.
This absolute rotting cunt! She storms to Vox’s office, Valentino following silently behind.
She can’t leave Pride, but their branded products can. She opens VoxDrone and activates four heavy-duty spy drones, quickly inputting Hellevator and Greed ring coordinates.
Sin or not, she was going to tear Mammon a new arsehole.
Mammon isn’t anxious. No, not at all. He’s just checking and rechecking all his sound equipment; has to make sure the cheap stuff works right! What kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t serenade his partner with a rock ballad when he got there?
Still, Mammon was miffed. Why was Vox walking to his place? He had forty neon signs and a blimp pointing to his giant mansion next to his stadium. It wasn't hard to find. Mammon was sure Vox was just being dramatic and waiting to make an entrance.
He had the little doll girl call him, like Mammon didn’t know his boyfriend. If Vox thought faking a kidnapping was going to save him, well, he had another thing coming!
Still, Mammon let his fingers work over the familiar chords of his electric guitar. He’d written this song himself, definitely not for Vox—of course not, that would be too mushy. It wasn’t a love ballad (thank you very much, Ozzie)—but Vox would get an extra special preview. Mammon made it through the song twice before an annoying buzzing hit his ears. First, he kicked the stupid subwoofer, thinking it was on the fritz. When that didn’t work, he set down his guitar with a growl and followed the interruption.
His face instantly morphs into a grin when he sees the familiar cyan blue brand on a hovering drone. “Voxxy! Took you long enough, you cunt!” Mammon steps forward, his arms outstretched, expecting his boyfriend to zap out of his little contraption and into his arms.
“You bloody stupid bastard!” A shrill voice shrieks at him and he’s greeted by the vaguely familiar female sinner he’s seen on dozens of posters with Vox. His smile shifts into a sneer. “I told you Vox was fucking kidnapped and you’re in her playing with your cheap knockoffs-” Mammon holds his hand up and smugly crushes the drone. There, that solved that problem.
He gets a blessed moment of silence before the familiar buzzing is back. Four more VoxTek drones fly through the window, before a little screen pops up and the female sinner is back.
“Listen up, you stupid fucker. Hang up on me again and I’ll drag you and your idiotic clownfucker show through the dirt so far you won’t be able to step outside in your dumb bells without every ring laughing at you.” The sinner’s name started with a V—like everyone in Vox’s group. “I can do this all day,” she threatened. “Vox has a whole warehouse of these drones. So you can keep breaking Vox’s unsold products, which he’ll be pissed about, or you can listen up.”
Mammon seriously considers breaking this drone, too; he only holds back because Vox would be absolutely insufferable about it if he found out. Mammon crosses both sets of arms over his chest petulantly. “Oi, what do you want then?”
“Like I said, Vox was kidnapped.”
Mammon rolled his eyes. “I already told you, Vox better come up with a better excuse.”
A series of curses roll out of the speaker, “I’m bloody serious, you wanker! You think I want to be spending my time trying to contact you when I could be doing a limited low stock run of the most gorgeous corset series Hell has ever seen?” She spits out.
That made Mammon pause. No one would waste time on a prank if there was money to be made, and Vox usually wouldn’t either. Still, Vox was an overlord, so the situation seemed absurd. “Vox is strong; he can’t get kidnapped.”
“Vox is an idiot,” she said flatly. “Here's proof.” Her screen switched to a text with a picture. Mammon leaned in to see the tiny screen. Vox was tied up with glowing golden angelic ropes and a shiny shotgun pointed at him.
“WHAT?!” Mammon screeched, his form growing as his rage built. That was his sinner. Someone had taken his sinner from his ring when Vox was supposed to be here, impressed by all his stuff! Then Mammon saw the price tag on the ransom. Heaven could try to smite him, but he wasn’t paying that much. Vox was already his property—this was blatant theft from the Sin of Greed!
Electricity dances from between his bells, making the screen on the little drone flicker grey as it fights to maintain its signal.
“I want this fucker found and sold for pennies like the worthless cunt they are!” His breathing is heavy as he glares at the screen in front of him.
“You and me both, itsy bitsy. So now let's talk plans before this fucker decides to do something drastic like go public.”
“I’m not paying the ransom.”
“Well obviously,” the sinner said, rolling her eyes. “Vox would kill me for wasting his money. So we need to find him first. Got any bright ideas? Val and I aren’t exactly authorized to leave Pride and fuck up shit to look for him.”
Even thinking about this made him want to gag. Ozzie would be an unbearable prick about this—he was still mad about Fizzy, which made two of them. How dare Ozzie steal his best clown and moneymaker just by dating him! If Mammon had known that’s all it would have taken to keep Fizzy happy, he would have dated him himself and kept making shiny new brand merchandise!
He grimaces. “I may have some ideas.”
“I’m listening.”
Dialing up Ozzie is as close to physical pain as Mammon has felt in centuries. He crushes two phones before finally giving up and opting for a video call.
“Ozzie!” Mammon says, all fake cheer.
“Mammon.” The Sin of Lust addresses significantly less pleased. “Why are you calling?”
“Well, I may have a teeny tiny personal problem that I thought you might relate to.”
“Vox finally realized he could do better and that you were actually after his patents?”
“No!” Mammon hisses out. They’d come to a resolution on that after the seventh date.
“Then what?”
“Some fucker kidnapped my boyfriend from my ring!” That makes Ozzie pause. “And he didn’t even bother to send the ransom note to me!” Mammon shrieks into the phone. “Why the fuck can’t people keep their grubby hands off my stuff! Look at this!” Mammon shoves his phone closer to face, seething at the messages the little Vee had screenshotted.
“Mammon, I can’t see anything but your stupid mug like that.”
Mammon is so busy ranting, he doesn’t notice his ex-employee and Greed Ring money maker pop on the screen. “Hey, this looks familiar, Oz! Isn’t this like the note they sent you when I got kidnapped?”
Mammon scrunches his face at the interruption and then further as he sees Fizzy. He doesn’t appreciate the reminder that Ozzie ruined the perfectly good business relationship on live television. He grunts at the imp in acknowledgment. He hadn’t known Fizzy had been kidnapped, too. He wondered if it was before he broke the contract and ran away to Lust. He feels the rage bubble up. If it was, then why didn’t anyone tell him that people were trying to steal from him?
Sure, Greed wasn’t as nice as Lust, though he thought all the strip clubs were tacky and boring. But Mammon wasn’t such a shit ruler that he would just let people nick things from him without consequence? He’d string up any Robin Hood cunty motherfuckers by their ears!
“No, Froggy, they sent me that one on old paper, not text.”
“Not, the medium, babe, the words. It looks just like when Striker had me. He has a flair for the dramatic; he can’t let go of. Blitzo told me he hospitalized an Ars Goetia a few weeks ago. He’s bad news, and his hat looks stupid.”
Mammon’s throat suddenly felt like a desert. An imp had injured one of Hell’s nobility? Sinners were far more fragile than them, even Overlords. Suddenly, the little doll’s actions didn’t seem so ridiculous.
“Striker,” Ozzie says, running one of his hands down Fizzy’s torso in a calming way. “Little bastard. Maybe he’s just going after the royalty’s loved ones. First Fizzy, now Vox, I'd better call Charlie and Bee to warn them. It’s worrisome that it’s the same guy twice. He’s getting bold.”
“Impossible,” Mammon says stiffly. “No one outside the family knows we’re dating. Bad for business.”
Ozzie and Fizz blink. “Are you keeping Vox a secret?” Ozzie scolds. Mammon rolls his eyes. “That’s not healthy.”
“You would know all about ‘healthy’,” Mammon sneers, airquoting the word. “How long were you and Fizz dating again?” He enjoys the flare-up of Ozzie’s mane at the callout. “It’s perfectly healthy for our bottom lines! Do you know what Hell would do if they realized collectively we had a monopoly and weren’t even bothering to compete? The little imp fuckers would be rioting in the streets!”
Fizzy glares, and Ozzie clicks his tongue in disgust. Honestly, it’s uncalled for. Mammon doesn’t say shit about his sin even when he can see Ozzie’s hand rubbing all over Fizz’s thigh. It’s enough to make him gag. Not to mention them both making goo-goo eyes at each other. It’s disgusting. Mammon might have to discount his latest batch of Fizzbots just to get the image out of his mind.
Mammon crosses both sets of arms over his chest defensively. “I didn’t come here to be judged about my business practices. I just want my stuff back!”
Ozzie shoots him another disappointed look, which he ignores. “So how do we find this Striker?”
Fizzy grins at him, snatching the phone out of Ozzie’s hands. “I know just who you should call. They even have a catchy jingle!”
Vox has to admit that being kidnapped is rather boring. Sure, the racing at top speed and nearly getting into dozens of accidents in a bright red convertible was fun! Reminded him of the eighties when he’d been coked up enough to let Val drive. The stupid name of Greed towns didn’t help, seriously, who named a town Ransom? And don’t even get him started on the last sign they drove past that said Destiny. But now he was sitting in a cave somewhere in Greed and he was fucking bored!
They’re far enough out of town that Vox can’t pick up any electrical signals, just a weird buzzing as his own signals come back cold. The cowboy doesn’t have a cellphone, which Vox can’t decide if it’s paranoia or just being out of touch. Of course, he’d get kidnapped by an imp version of Alastor, just not wearing red.
Eventually, the lack of stimulation gets to him and he can’t help but open his mouth. “So how much did you ask for me?”
“That’s information you don’t need to know.”
“Don’t be stingy. What’s the harm in letting me know?”
His kidnapper grunts at him. Vox tsks in disappointment, leaning back against the stone wall and starts singing, “If you’ve got the money, I’ve got the time. If you’ve got the money honey, I’ve got the time.”
“Ain’t no use to tarry so let’s start out tonight. We’ll have more fun, baby, all way down the line.” Vox lets his voice take on a country twang.
“Shut up, you’re worse than my drunk uncle and sound like a dying cat.”
That offends him more than anything else from the hick. He knows his voice and charisma have never been in question. He swallows his irritation. "You don’t have to worry about me, Wyatt. I’m not that drunk."
Vox enjoyed the way Imp’s nose scrunched up. “My name’s not Wyatt, it's Striker and I sure as shit ain’t worried about you.” Vox laughs and jots down in one of his internal files that he needs to remake some classic cowboy films or at least re-air some of them, if the perfect target audience can’t even recognize a quote. “You should be worried about what’s going to happen if your compadres don’t pay for you. So you should make your little follow-up message to your friends sound real sincere like.” Striker reaches into his coat and pulls out a recorder—shit, was that a cassette tape? Where did imps shop the 1980s?
Vox laughed at that and stretched his tied up hands as far as he could behind his back, “Well, right now I don't feel too agreeable.”
“Are you mocking me?” Striker hisses out, there’s a faint rattling like sand pouring down an hourglass. Huh, maybe imps were more like sinners than he thought or maybe this particular imp just leaned into the rattlesnake aesthetic particularly hard.
Really, it’s not his fault that this cowboy has seemingly never seen a classic western movie in his life. But that didn’t mean Vox had to let perfectly quotable moments pass him by.
“Mocking? Of course not, I’m here powerless and at your mercy, why would I do that? It’s just… Mister Striker Sir,” Vox enlarges his eyes on his screen and bats exaggerated eyelashes, “I’m getting kind of thirsty and it’s just sooo cold in this cave. We sinners are used to Pride’s heat.”
“Then maybe you damn sinners should learn to stay in your own ring to pollute it,” Striker says with a sneer as he flips a knife in his hands. “How you even snuck out of your shitty ring is beyond me. Wish the angels would do us a favor and take care of all your fucks so we could have Hell back to its rightful denizens.” Striker spat on the ground.
Vox feels a spark of irritation. He powered all of Hell; hellborn should be grateful. Sinners didn’t build the afterlife’s structures anyway. He resents the implication he snuck anywhere—he’s a famous Overlord, always invited and arriving in style. Greed just hadn’t gotten the memo!
He wouldn’t say something that could compromise Mammon, though. Playing with his own reputation and his own company was one thing, but there was a line Vox wouldn’t cross any of his partners on and that was putting them and their interests at risk.
He can at least be Striker’s most irritating captive. Channeling Valentino, he collapses dramatically, letting his screen flicker and chip on the stone.
Hellborn were rarely familiar with sinner biology or anatomy; hell, most sinners weren’t even familiar with other sinner biology. Not everyone could have Baxter on their payroll; Vox made sure of it.
He goes quiet, nudging his fans to speed up.
“Hey, what are you doing? I ain’t falling for any bullshit?” Striker growls out, but Vox doesn’t let up, letting his screen go black for a few seconds and smirking in the blackness as his audio receptors pick up the crunch of gravel as Striker moves closer.
He lets his screen flicker faintly again and go monochrome before blinking his eyes open, feigning weakness. Decades of acting experience serve him well. He takes in Striker, who is now crouched beside him, staring at his chipped screen with concern.
Then Vox flings himself up, listening to the satisfying crack as the back of his screen slams into his kidnapper’s face.
"You little shit," Striker snarls, clutching his nose, blood dribbling as he fumbles out his pistol and levels it at Vox.
"You're a good-lookin' man. You got a future." Vox says, “You don’t need to do this.” He plays up the emotion in his voice, pleased by his performance as the imp’s eyes narrow at him.
“What would a privileged asshole like you know?” He hisses, “Practically born at the top of this shitpile while I clawed my way up from the gutter. A man's got to do something for a living these days."
Was that from The Magnificent Seven? Maybe this cowboy does have taste. Vox’s memory search distracts him as Striker knots a dirty grey cloth and shoves it over his mouth. Vox discorporates his mouth—he’s put unclean things in it over the years, thanks to Valentino, but draws the line at unwashed gags.
Striker steps back and smirks at Vox, taking in his handy work of the gag securely placed over the bottom of Vox’s screen. “There! That’s a might better, now isn’t it?”
Vox lets him taste victory, staying silent as Striker stalks back across the cave, settling down and letting out a pleased sigh as the only sound that fills the cave is a dull drip.
“That’s a good effort,” Vox says, playing the sound of an audience slow clapping. “So close too! Unfortunately, that’s just not the way televisions work!”
Striker growls, eyes snapping back. “Shut up, you blue loudmouthed fucker!”
“Oh, I’m not loudmouthed. You should meet the Radio Demon. Complete asshole, by the way, I wouldn’t even recommend kidnapping him. He’s dirt poor, wouldn’t be able to pay a ransom to save his hide. Of course, he’s friends with the Princesses of Hell; the royals might be able to pay a ransom. Fifty-fifty on if the princess even notices he’s missing or not. And the other side is that you’d have to be within touching distance of him, and he bites. If
“I’m not kidnapping any other Overlords.” Striker hisses out the faint rattle sounds behind him in warning.
"Should I feel special, then?" Vox asks smugly, cueing up a tea-kettle whistle as Striker glares.
Velvette is in a right state. If she were anyone else, she’d look like shit. But as the Fashion Overlord, not a hair is out of place. Still, she’s ready to cut the next person who doesn’t give her a useful update. She’s in Vox’s mancave—which she’ll totally redecorate when this is over—monitoring all the VoxTek feeds and algorithms. She should have put a fucking tracking chip in Vox. Instead, she’s sorting through hundreds of useless V-phone clips from imps’ pockets in Greed, hoping to find anything about the kidnapper.
They’ve been at this for nearly five hours now, and Valentino is chainsmoking so much the room is hazy. She’d tell him to piss off, but honestly, the nicotine's secondhand wave is the only thing keeping her from snapping as she rearranges Vox’s code, hoping to find anything useful while they wait for Mammon to update them.
Her phone buzzes. She reaches her hand out to dismiss it when she sees the familiar shark emoji.
“Wait, wait, I’m getting a text from Vox!” Velvette shouts. Valentino leans closer, squinting. He’d made Vox set up his phone to read his texts aloud to him, and preferred to send voice memos if he couldn’t get a hold of someone. The buttons with tiny letters were just too small. Valentino was sure Vox wouldn’t be texting either with his stupid sharp claws if he couldn’t automatically link whatever he had in his head to all of his phone systems.
“Well, chica, what does it say?”
“It says,” Velvette frowns, “I have a rendezvous with destiny. What’s that bloody mean? Some sort of quote?"
That sounds oddly familiar. Valentino bites his lip—why does that sound familiar? Then it clicks. He snaps. “That’s a movie quote, something about Billy the Kid. Voxxy made me watch it with him in the '80s.” Valentino may enjoy cowboy movies; chaps and tight pants are endless inspiration, plus the gunfights. But Vox isn’t here and he doesn’t need to admit that to anyone.
“Why the fuck is the idiot quoting ancient movies at us right now?”
Valentino shrugs—he doesn’t know. Velvette clicks a screenshot and sends it to the group chat for Mammon and his little rescue imp squad.
Velvette has had it up to here with the idiots Mammon hired. Their van was tacky. Their clothes were so atrocious that if they tried to rescue her, Velvette would probably kill herself to save herself the embarrassment. Not to mention their leader, Blitzo, seemed to have only one volume on the VoxTek communicator, and that was fucking eardrum bursting.
Velvette considered purging horses from all of Hell’s internet just to spite him as she watched his progress on Vox’s latest drone. The only upside was spinning the story—the people loved it. Beloved CEO kidnapped by a rogue imp with a hate-filled agenda; the losers lapped it up. Vox’s ratings were up 10%, plus he’d get even more appearances after his return.
Vox was going to owe her for dealing with these pricks. Vacation her arse—Vox could never take one again for all she cared, even if that meant seeing more of Mammon in the tower.
Vox reboots with a yawn and checks his internal clocks. It had been fun at first, but now it’s nearly 36 hours since he was kidnapped, and he’s honestly a bit offended that no one has tried to save him yet. Not to mention, he’s already finished his backlog of work stored on his internal servers. He can’t even connect to his live shark cams to check on his babies. He’d managed to piggyback on a signal at one point. He couldn’t have been clearer in his clue he sent to Valentino and Velvette: the last town he’d seen them drive past in Greed was literally called Destiny. Tacky and off-theme, if you ask Vox. Maybe after this is all over, he could get Mammon to rename it, if not after him, then at least after Shok.Wav.
His legs are stiff and prickle as he stretches them as far as his restraints allow. He’s weighing whether to start an annoying bout of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall and if that might get him shot. Suddenly, his left antenna twitches as it picks up a signal for the first time in hours. It was getting closer. More importantly, the familiar buzz tells him it’s a VoxTek device. Vox traces it. Striker had left him alone and retreated to the front of the cave.
His eyes trace as three small imps creep closer. He increases the brightness on his screen, enough to see that they were all armed. Three glowing sets of eyes land on him. Vox leaves his smile in place, not sure what just landed him.
Well, fuck him. If he has to regenerate because his hick of a kidnapper was in some kind of imp gang war, he was going to burn down Greed—Mammon be damned. But he can still feel the signal in one of their pockets. He smirks. There it was—his exit.
They needed to get a bit closer. He started charging his power for a jump. The tallest imp sneaks closer, leaning back and flashing out a knife to start sawing at the angelic ropes.
“Come on, you flat-faced moneybags, let’s go,” the imp says with a pistol clutched in his hands. Vox blinks lazily up at him from his bindings.
Vox's screen flashes in irritation and he doesn’t bother restraining his electricity, as a spark jumps from his body to the imp.
“OW!” The imp shrieks, yanking his hands away, all hints of subterfuge blown completely, “Look here, you limp-dicked—”
“Blitz!” One of the other two imp’s reprimands.
“What?! He shocked me! Fucking ungrateful! Fine, fine,” The imp yells, throwing his hands up, “I’ll just princess carry his twinkass!”
Before Vox has time to argue, he’s an undignified lump over the imp’s shoulder. Vox would complain, but between Val and Mammon, he’s far too used to being manhandled. Besides, the imp is surprisingly strong.
“So now that you’ve alerted Striker, you’re here, is one of you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?" Vox asks with a smirk as he looks at the two imps hauling ass towards the entrance of the cave.
“Sir?” the tiny imp in a bowtie asks in confusion.
“Blitzo, should’ve known you’d come get in the way of my successful business,” Striker says with a veneer of friendliness that can’t quite hide his growl.
“Hah, the only one with a successful business around here is me!” Blitzo nearly drops Vox as he releases an arm to jab his thumb proudly at his chest.
Vox would dispute this, but the two imps are practically eye-fucking each other, and he can’t stop himself from asking, “So are you two exe’s?”
Blitz’s head swings towards Vox and he lets out an emphatic, “Fuck no! I wouldn’t sleep with this sexy motherfucker if you paid me!”
“Shut up, you loudmouth bastard!” Striker roars at him, spittle flying as he growls at Vox.
“Oh, no! Whatever will you do? Gag me again?” Vox cackles at the thought of the earlier attempt.
“That’s it!” Striker whirls on him, pointing his pistol at him.
With how many guns Valentino has pointed at him, loaded with angelic steel over the years, this hardly even registers as a threat. "You better put down that gun. You got two ways to go, put it down or use it. Even if you tie me, you're gonna be dead. They're gonna have to take you back with some extra holes!”
Vox looks amused and resists the urge to snort. Valentino would probably like him with extra holes.
“If you're gonna shoot, shoot. Don't talk." Vox pats himself on the back for that one, even if it would continue to go unappreciated by his audience.
“Wait, was that from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?” the female imp asks. Vox smiles over at her and plays the ding-ding-ding sound of success from his game show.
“You’ve been tied up and egging Striker on with movie quotes this whole time?” The bow-tied imp asks in disbelief. Vox lets out another winning buzzer sound.
"I'm gonna kill you, and I don't need a gun to do it." Striker hisses at him. Vox pauses. Was he quoting Tombstone at him? Huh, maybe there was some movie taste in there somewhere.
There’s a bang as Striker’s gun goes off. Vox doesn’t hesitate—he pulls himself towards the signal and out of his restraints. It feels like swimming through mud and takes far more power than it should, dropping his internal battery to 15%. But he does it. Vox pops out of the phone in the female imp’s pocket.
He straightens his day-old suit jacket, smoothing it back into place as he shoots his current audience his signature grin. The angelic ropes fall empty and loose over Blitz’s shoulders.
“Now, that’s better. I have to say, Striker, for a country boy, your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired.”
“You could have done this the whole time?” the little bow-tied imp asks incredulously.
Vox just smiles at him when he hears the tinkle of a familiar bell from the entrance of the cave. He turns his head to Striker with amusement. "When you make a deal with the devil, you’ve got to expect the devil to show up," Vox says, grinning as he sees the massive wall of green that can only be his boyfriend’s fashion choices. He watches Striker’s eyes widen in surprise. A burst of sadistic glee sparks in his chest. Not for the first time today, he wishes he had popcorn to watch the show.
It’s over quickly after that, between the blaze of bullets from his ‘rescuers’ and Mammon sparking.
Striker is a mottled and purpling pile of limbs collapsed in the corner. Blood trickles slowly from a gash in his head and his signature cowboy hat is flattened beside him. The ground suddenly disappears from under Vox’s dress shoes as he’s hefted into the air.
“Well,” Vox says as he’s crushed into Mammon’s chest, “ain’t that a sight for sore eyes."
“Voxxy, you stupid cunt!” Mammon wraps his four arms around Vox, “I thought you were a goner!”
Art by Godlizza
“Oww, babe, watch the screen! Fucker chipped it,” Vox grumbled, “Other than that, I’m fine.”
Vox relishes the coil of electrical sparks Mammon releases as he swings them around to glare at Mammon with all his eyes. There’s his wonderful embodiment of Greed. Even Striker, in his less-than-fully cognizant state, shivers and tries to shrink away.
“It’s fine. Just shows you we should have stayed at my place. I mean, pfft, Mams, we drove past a place called Ransom, what did you think was going to happen?” Vox knows he has the advantage. He could smell it in the water. If he played this right, Mammon would be putty in his hands and he’d have an excuse to never have to visit Greed again. Why would he come down here when he has a 5-star resort in Pride that he owns?
“Voxxy, no, I swear this was a freak accident. This type of thing never happens to my stuff, you didn’t even see my money vault yet!”
Mammon squeezes him harder and Vox lets out a low beep. "Careful, Mams, there’s sensitive equipment in here!" A money vault felt… very Mammon. Vox preferred to keep his assets a little more flexible and backed by his own crypto coin, Voxcoin. He had to admit Mammon did look cute, though, with his jester’s hat skewed, his little sniffles, and his hands pawing all over to check him for injuries. Vox relaxes into his boyfriend's arms. What could Vox say? He was a sucker for a size difference.
“I suppose a little stop couldn’t hurt, but I need to get home in time to capitalize on this!”Vox was already working on immaculately edited footage from the last 36 hours to spin this. Nothing upped ratings like a kidnapping and a clever escape, even if he would have to edit out Mammon going apeshit at the end, but Vox already had that saved to his back-ups. There was no way he was going to delete that. No, that would live forever on his private servers.
Mammon smiles at that, “Capitalize? Babe, I love it when you talk dirty to me.” Vox smirks and leans in and presses his mouth to Mammon’s.
“Disgusting.” Vox hears from one of the imps that came to his rescue. Vox doesn’t stop kissing; he just raises a hand to flip them off.
Vox taps his hands in irritation on his desk. It’s been a week since he returned from Greed and it’s been a rush. Velvette expertly strung together her drone footage into a compelling narrative. Meanwhile, Vox has spent the past week climbing ratings and catching up on his backlog from vacation.
“I’m not paying that,” Vox says flatly into the phone. “I didn’t request to be rescued and I certainly wouldn’t define anything your company did as rescuing. No, you can speak to my lawyers if you want, but don’t expect compensation!” Vox growls into the phone as the obnoxious Imp, Blitzo throws creative examples of what exactly he can do with his asshole. Vox makes a note of some of the examples to send to Val for inspiration, then when they start to get repetitive, he hangs up.
He doesn’t have time for this. He needs to reimagine and adapt the western genre for Hell. He’s planning a special marketing campaign in Wrath, while Velvette works on a ‘non-tacky Cowgirl kitsch’—whatever that means.
“That asshole hung up on me!” Blitzo screeches into the phone before he slams it down. “Cheap-ass sinner!”
“Sir, are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, Mammon already threw a fit—” Moxie starts as he rustles his nerdy little accounting book.
“Yeah, but we got that stingy motherfucker to pay!” And Blitzo was proud of that. Sure, he might have had to have Stolitz look over the contract and gotten a favor pulled with Fizz for Ozzie to make a call, but he’d forked over the money. Less than they’d asked for, but still Blitzo was hot shit who made THE Sin of Greed pay him.
“So, we’ve already been paid. I don’t—”
“Moxxie, Moxie, Moxie,” Blitzo said, shaking his head, “Don’t be such a limp dick and leave the thinking to me. Both these assholes are rich as fuck! When you do jobs like this with two rich assholes, you charge them twice they can afford it! It’s called value pricing!” Blitzo rubbed his hands together, “Don’t worry, we’ll get the TV head to pay up. If he doesn’t, I bet there are dozens of people who would love to hear all about his secret boyfriend.”
“That’s blackmail, sir,” Moxie says faintly, looking like he’s a second away from passing out.
Blitzo gives him a disappointed head shake. “No Moxie, that's called being industrious! Now add another zero on that invoice and I’ll call him back!”