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Vox sat in his swivel chair, staring out at the burning city of Hell from the Vee Tower. The only sound in the room came from Shok.wav’s tank as the water filtered, droplets echoing against the walls. There was a low, static hum somewhere in the distance, probably from the overbearing amount of electricity that flowed through the tower.
Vox let out a sigh, swirling the glass of whiskey in his hand. He rested his head against his fist, downing the rest of the cup. He stood, the chair rolling back as he pushed it away from him. He stumbled over to his desk, neatly organized besides the bottle of Jack that sat in the middle. He set his cup down, grabbing the bottle and unscrewing the lid. He paused, glancing between the glass and the bottle. He grumbled, walking back to his chair with the entire bottle.
He took in a deep breath, bringing the bottle to his lips. He slowly took a long sip, dropping the bottle between his legs. He blinked out at the familiar skyline, the one he’d known for over seventy years. Seventy years of climbing his way to the top all over again. Seventy years of fear, of heartbreak. Seventy years without Alastor.
It was pathetic, Vox knew that. Seventy years had passed and the Radio Demon still held a place in his mind. Maybe it was because Alastor was the first person Vox met in Hell. The first person to make him feel welcome. Or maybe it was because Alastor was the first person to ridicule him, belittle him into thinking he was nothing. In and before death.
Vincent Whitman wouldn’t have let the man berate him like that. On Earth, he would’ve had missing posters hanging for Alastor within twenty-four hours. Vincent would’ve stood in front of a camera, pleading for information on the case with blood on his hands.
But in Hell, surrounded by sinners who were no less than him, Vincent almost felt at home. Something about that changed the man. Especially when he met Alastor.
Alastor’s voice was everywhere, you couldn’t mistake it. The bars all tuned the radio to his station. It was the first thing you’d hear when you stepped into a taxi. Vincent admired Alastor. Though he’d never seen his face, he knew he’d recognize his voice anywhere. Charming and charismatic, Vincent would’ve described it, and that’s exactly how it happened.
Vincent sat at a bar, one that held no significant meaning to him at the time, but would soon become his favorite place. The door chimed and Vincent didn’t even look up from his drink. He stared at his own reflection in the liquid until he heard the stool next to him creak. He glanced over just as the sinner spoke to the bartender, ordering a glass of bourbon in that voice— that voice, the one that played from every radio station in Hell, the one that Vincent knew all too well.
Alastor must have noticed Vincent’s staring because he turned to him with these glowing eyes and an unwavering smile that’s still burned into Vox’s mind.
“Ah, a picture box! You must be new here,”
Vox remembers this day clearly. It replays in his mind every time he hears a crackle of static or walks past the bar, which he typically tries to avoid doing.
Vox remembers chuckling, his star-struck expression still plastered on his face. He extended a hand to the deer, introducing himself and spitting out compliments. Alastor relished in them. It was obvious he wasn’t new to praise.
The two talked until the early morning hours that night. Vincent shared his past achievements with Alastor, who listened intently, head propped on his fist. Vincent remembers leaving the bar with Alastor and tripping over the threshold, which was the first time he discovered his screen could break. He remembers Alastor laughing, but still knelt down next to him, asking if it hurts, does it hurt.
All the memories of him do.
Vox gripped the empty bottle of whiskey, his hands shaking. He stood clumsily, staggering over to his desk. He slammed the bottle down, his hands coming to rest against the wood. He glanced over at his phone on the side of the desk, screen dark. No one bothered to text him. Ever.
He struggled with the phone as he picked it up, slugging over to his bed. He plopped down, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared hazily into the distance, his mind racing. His chest felt hollow. He opened his contacts, scrolling past Valentino’s name.
He could’ve easily called the moth up to his room and blown off some drunken steam as he had before, but his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, scrolling all the way down to his blocked contacts. He stared at the name on the screen. Alastor.
He clicked on the contact, inspecting the profile picture. It was a picture Alastor didn’t know existed. He would’ve skinned Vox alive. Vox— or, Vincent, really— had taken the picture one day at Alastor’s radio station. It was a candid picture of him in his studio, reading a script into a microphone. Vox remembered that day as well. Alastor only let him come to the station with him that once, just so Vincent could see how it worked there. That day was when he’d gotten the idea of starting a partnership with Alastor.
Vox gripped at his head, debating his actions. He knew Alastor wouldn’t answer. Hell, no one had heard from the Radio Demon in decades. But Vox clung onto the possibility that maybe Alastor was waiting for him to call. Maybe he had changed his mind, but didn’t want to be the first to reach out.
Vox’s finger hesitated over the ‘call’ button. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. He let out a long sigh, and pressed it.
It rung once… then twice…three times…
Voicemail. Vox sighed. His chest tightened as he heard Alastor’s signature voice through the speakers, telling the caller to leave a message.
Vox debated it. He could hang up now and brush it off as an accident. Or he could be pathetic. He chose pathetic. The phone beeped.
“Alastor,” Vox slurred out. “I—“
He went silent. Too silent for too long. He glanced at the ‘hang up’ button. He could easily end this now and turn back forever. He was too stubborn for that, however.
“I miss you,” he spoke.
He went silent again. He swallowed. He mentally cursed himself. His finger pressed the ‘hang up’ button. He tossed his phone to the side, burying his face in his hands. He dragged them down his face.
Vox stood, wobbling slightly. His feet scuffed against the marble floor, carrying him to the bathroom. He turned on the sink, staring at the water that pooled in the bottom. The running water drowned out the buzzing of his phone on his bed. The sound of a call. A call that Vox would miss.
Vox didn’t even make it out of his day clothes, or under the covers before he was asleep. A crackling static passed through the air. A blue glow shot between his antenna.