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Vox hasn’t seen Alastor in two weeks. He figured it was one of his seasonal binges. It is the fall, and try as he might, Vox has lived with him long enough to know he gets urges this time of year—no matter how much Alastor denies it. But when the weeks turn into months. Vox begins to question it. He still goes home to their house. Alastor had only made him move in to fuck with him, but the joke's on Alastor because it’s going on six decades they’ve been together and Vox can tune out most of his bullshit.
So what if Alastor hasn’t been home? Vox is happy! Why wouldn’t he be? Alastor fucked off, and now he can do whatever he wants! So what if he has a craving for étouffée and no one else can make it right.
Vox is three glasses of whiskey in when he works up the courage to yank their contract. No, it’s still there. Wherever Alastor is and whatever he’s up to, he’s alive and still in possession of Vox’s soul.
Vox lets out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding. What the hell was wrong with him worrying about Alastor? The Radio Demon could take care of himself.
Hell’s gotten louder in Alastor’s absence. It started slow; a stray frequency there, some new sinner starting up a ham radio station, but two years in, one of the freshly fallen gets greedy. Vox zaps awake at midnight, screaming. Dozens of channels blasting out. Some schmuck started up a television station. Vox can feel the frequencies hammering into his skull.
It hurts. Everything hurts.
Alastor isn’t here to deter others’ broadcasts, and Pride has grown wild and wicked in signals. Now it's a many-headed dragon. Radio waves might not be his bread and butter like they are Alastor’s, but he can feel them all. His body is the perfect little receiver, and that’s exactly the problem. It only gets worse. Vox can’t tune them out. He’s not made for it. So they thrum with constant noise and leave him with a never-ceasing migraine.
He reaches up and wrenches one of his antennas down, bending it over itself. It hurts like Hell, like breaking an arm. It quiets the never-ending deluge of foreign signals. Vox lets out a shaky breath and stands.
Alastor isn’t here to deal with this, but Vox is.
Vox leaves the studio smoldering with dozens of sinners dead. Satisfaction curls around his chest like a pleased cat. It’s been ages since Vox got his claws bloody. Alastor doesn’t usually allow it; he takes it as a personal insult if someone so much as spits at him. Vox would never use the word "overprotective" because that was ridiculous. Alastor doesn’t work like that, but there is a certain safety that comes with his possessiveness.
Vox makes it a month living high on the hog when the consequences come home to roost. The fuckers find him at his shop. In the chaos, it turns out even two-bit overlord wannabes can get in lucky shots.
Vox sends 1000 volts through his body and liquifies the bastard’s brain. It doesn’t matter that the damage is done; a crack runs up the glass of his screen. He winces as he touches it, his vision spots out, and the rainbow error bars paint the left side of his screen.
Shit!
This was Alastor’s job. It was in their deal. Vox couldn’t modernize, but Alastor had to do maintenance; fix him when he couldn’t fix himself.
Vox could try to find the parts, but his internals are delicate, and one misplaced claw or unclipped wire could leave him a collapsed, drooling vegetable on the floor forever. Regeneration doesn’t do shit for sinners like him; turns out you can’t regenerate inorganics.
Fuck! Vox stares miserably back at the colored bars that take up his screen, and he tugs desperately at their deal. The green soul chain materializes, but Alastor doesn’t.