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Vox sighs at the steady drip of acid rain splats down on the pavement outside his electronic store. The neon lights glow a steady blue against the puddles. He glances at the door and then gazes across his backlog for repair: a few small portable radios, a couple of toasters, and one television set. The only thing even semi-modern was the radios. Of course, Alastor would leave loopholes for himself when he said no new technology in their deal.
The irritating blurt of Alastor’s recorded voice echoes across the empty shop. “Radio technology isn’t new, my dear! Why, it’s been around since before the war. No, these little shinier boxes are hardly new.”
He flips the back casing off the radio with extreme prejudice as he harshly adjusts the wires. Vox sneers. “Not new, my ass.”
Thinking about that night still pissed him off. All Alastor has to do is open one of these and look at the way the transistors are getting smaller and more intricate. But, it turned out being Alastor’s partner held far less sway when he could tug on your soul when you were making an argument he didn’t care for. So Vox shut up; at least this way, Vox could look at some of the technological advancements the living world made.
Not for the first time today, Vox curses himself for being stupid enough to make that deal. It only takes a few quick adjustments, and he’s closing the radio back up and turning the dial. Jazz echoes off the walls. It’s always jazz.
This shop is as modern as Alastor will let him keep, and he supposes he should be grateful it’s something to do. His dream of broadcasting with Alastor, of building a media empire with him, feels so distant. It rotted on the vine the moment he shook Alastor’s hand.
Vox sighs and stands up, his back popping from sitting too long. It’s probably time he closes up; it’s not like anyone else would be coming in this late. He’s been staying at his—technically his and Alastor’s now— shop later and later to avoid the watchful eyes of the city. The backlash to his reputation had been swift and crushing.
Alastor had never come right out and said he owned Vox’s soul. He didn’t have to. Vox’s lack of broadcasts was telling enough. The gossip rags were happy to fill in the rest. From up-and-coming Overlord to stupid sucker overnight. Sparks dance over his antenna. It’s been almost a year, and he’s still choking on the humiliation.
Vox reaches for the steel-lined umbrella by the door and aggressively flips it open. With a click of his claws, the shop lights flicker off. He steps out into the street and locks the door. The soles of his shoes sizzle as they react to the acid.
The rain thins as Vox approaches the edge of the Doomsday District. The patter of the rain is replaced by the thump of footsteps. Vox ignores it.
“Hey, boxhead, stop.” Vox picks up his pace, walking faster. “I said STOP!” He grits his teeth. Great. Another one. There has been a steady stream of idiots like this since his predicament came out. Hell’s great pastime is kicking you while you're down.
“I heard the Radio Demon made you his bitch.” Vox scowls. He’s heard this hundreds of times now, and it never fails to prick his pride. He keeps walking.
“Hey!” A hand grabs the back of his jacket.
This fucker’s done it now. It’s a mistake sinners can only make once. Turns out Alastor is a possessive bastard. It shouldn’t make a warm fuzzy feeling spread in his stomach, but it does. At least Al seems happy with the parade of new guests for his broadcasts.
One second, the hand is there. The next the touch vanished. Vox doesn’t have to look behind him to know the shadows are receding. He lifts his umbrella higher and keeps walking. He's nearly home now.