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When people create a meal together, they often say it is one of the most romantic things one can do, yet the atmosphere felt like the building tension could be cut with a knife.
On one side stood Vox, arms crossed, his classic suit now exchanged for a soft sweater vest similar to something he wore… well, regardless, his screen displayed his already packed schedule, prioritizing what needed to be done within the next few hours. On the other stood Alastor, resting both hands lightly on his microphone cane, a smile fixed on his face as he himself was donned in an apron with the words Today I Feel Like Baking Someone Into A Pie"
Between them sat an opened eveople with a piece of parchment bearing Carmilla’s seal:
ANNUAL OVERLORD HOSPITALITY CONFECTION
DESIGNATED PAIR: Vox & Alastor
Order for selected pair: Bake one celebratory cake for the inauguration of Hell’s newest Overlord. Strictly non-lethal. Any residual holy water, cursed arsenic, or demonic soul-toxin will result in immediate territorial forfeiture. Additionally overlords are strictly forbidden from naming oneself to the newest overlord.
"I refuse," Vox snapped, his screen glitching with irritation "There is no universe in which I stand next to you for three hours to bake a cake. And for a new overlord please this is ridiculous! I do not have time for this, I left Vel in charge and who know’s how she is keeping Valentino in check..”
"Ah, but refusal carries such a dreadful price, my dear," Alastor cooed, leaning forward. "Unless, of course, you’d prefer to surrender three prime blocks of the Entertainment District to Ms. Carmine? I'm sure she’d make lovely use of the real estate."
Vox’s left eye started to swirl violently. "No…UGH FINE."
"Then let us make quick work of this absurd little exercise," Alastor said, "Though I refuse to work in this dreary, sterilized place that Carmilla calls a ‘kitchen. ‘ No, no, we shall do this at my place!”
Before Vox could even open his mouth to argue, the shadows in the room surged upward, swallowing the floor beneath both of their feet.
The world collapsed into a sickening, weightless plunge through the darkness. Vox’s screen glitched wildly, no matter how much he increased the brightness of his screen it seemed he was in well of pitch black. Vox was never afraid of the dark yet this endless darkness felt it was never ending. Shadow travel was an absolute nightmare for his psychic and his stomach.
With a soft, wet pop, the shadows deposited them into the Radio Tower.
Vox stumbled forward, grabbing the edge of a oak counter to steady himself. His screen flickered back to cyan, as he swallowed down a wave of nausea. "I... hate... when you do that," he wheezed, rubbing his stomach to quell the aching starting to bloom. "A simple warning would have sufficed, you psycho. or even better I could had just teleported myself!"
“And where would you spit yourself out in here darling for I have no television set within here.” Alastor chuckled.
Vox stared at him, his screen flickering with rainbow colored lines. "My power isn't strictly limited to consumer electronics, you dolt! I can conduct through any metallic grid or live current!"
"Fascinating," Alastor cooed, thoroughly unbothered as he turned to the pantry. Do try not to short-circuit and set flame to my floorboards."
"I am fine," Vox snapped, though he didn't dare let go of the counter just yet. He took a slow, steadying breath, letting his internal cooling fans spin up to try and disperse the last bits of nausea still lingering.
Alastor stood at the oak counter a wire whisk in hand getting a the little lumps of flour out into a ceramic bowl, his movements calm and practiced. Across the island, Vox was violently struggling with a hand-crank sifter.
"This piece of historical garbage is jamming," Vox growled, his screen flickering with red error icons as he yanked on the handle. "Why don't you have a standard food processor? Or a mixer? Why is everything in this house operated by a physical crank?"
"Because, good things take a bit of honest labor," Alastor murmured pleasantly, not looking up as he cracked an egg perfectly with one hand. "And if you break that sifter, I shall have you hunting down a new one least I remind you I happen to have gotten that one nearly 20 years ago.
Vox scoffed, setting the sifter down with a harsh clack and adjusting his own apron branding the words “Needs supervision”a dark navy one Alastor had pulled his shadow releam from who kniws where. "Carmilla is out of her mind. Making us cook the welcome meal for the new Overlord?”
"Yes, and Ms. Carmine specifically stipulated that the confection be handmade by the designated pair, without staff intervention," Alastor said, leaning over to gently dust a pinch of salt into his bowl. "A gesture of personal hospitality. Though I admit, having you under my roof for an afternoon is a trial that tests even my boundless patience."
"The feeling is mutual," Vox snapped. He leaned against the counter, watching Alastor’s surprisingly nimble fingers work through the flour and butter. "So. What are we even making? I didnt see any specifications listed. Please dont me your maybe some old ass cake from your era.” Vox muttered.
"A dark chocolate espresso cake," Alastor replied, ignoring thr insult and instead a smile softening into something genuine. Paired with a choclated frosting"
Vox blinked, his screen shifting to a softer shade of cyan. He quieted down for a second, eyeing the row of fresh ingredients real vanilla pods, dark cocoa, fresh berries, and a couple of chocolate covered espresso beans.
"...Okay," Vox muttered, pulling the bowl of dark chocolate toward himself and picking up a spatula. "Fine. I'm handling the chocolate tempering i can do that much at least.”
"Deal," Alastor said stepping back to hand him the double boiler. "Let us see if those hands of yours remember how to handle something delicate."
As the cake baked and cooled, the argument over the finishing touches broke out between the deer and television.
"Did you just measure that sugar with your eyes?" Vox yelled, pointing a spatula at him. "Alastor, there’s an reason we have recipes in baking! You don't just look and hope for the best!”
"My dear, my eyes have eighty years more experience what that saying our your’s trust us? Well I need you to trust me and Trust the process." Alastor hummed.
"I'm not trusting a process that relies on 'a pinch of this' and 'a heartful of that'! If this cake sinks in the middle because you refused to use a metric measuring spoon, I'm telling Carmilla it was sabotage."
"If the cake sinks, we shall simply call it 'rustic' and fill the void with more frosting ," Alastor said as he pickied up a canvas piping bag filled with smooth, espresso flavored chocolate icing.
Alastor began forming neat, elegant borders along the base of the cooled dark chocolate cake. Vox watched him from across the island, arms crossed, pretending to be indifferent, though his eyes tracked Alastor’s steady hands.
"You look strangely comfortable doing that," Vox muttered. "Where’d you even learn how to pipe frosting that neatly? I remember how you said he used to bake…when you were alive when you guys could afford the ingredients.. was your mom?” Vox murmured
Alastor’s ears gave a soft, amused twitch. He didn't look up, his smile softening into something unusually quiet and nostalgic.
"Actually, no," Alastor whispered, the radio static in his voice dropping to a smooth, low hum. "I was taught by dear Rosie. Many, many decades ago."
Vox blinked, his screen shifting to a look of surprise. "Rosie? The Cannibal Town lady?"
"The very same," Alastor said, guiding the piping bag in a perfect flourish. "It was back when you first tumbled down into Hell, as a matter of fact."
Vox went still. "...What?"
"Oh, yes! Carmilla enforced this exact same directive back then," Alastor chuckled softly, a fond gleam in his red eyes. "Rosie and I were drawn as the baking pair for the newly crowned Television Overlord. She insisted on a massive, three-tiered vanilla chiffon with spun sugar webs. I wanted to do something simple but she wouldn't have it and even had me running all around town to find certain ingredients that are hard to come by in Hell.”
He paused, resting the tip of the piping bag for just a second, his eyes distant for a brief, moment.
"She told me that a welcome cake ought to have heart. That no matter how ruthless or strange the newcomer might be, a proper confection sets the tone for their reign. We spent hours in her parlor kitchen, drinking tea, gossiping, and arguing over the decorations until the sun came up."
Vox stared at him, his screen flickering with a subtle, quiet static. "Wait a minute," Vox said slowly, his voice dropping as the realization hit him. "The directive... Carmilla's rule says the Overlords who bake the welcome cake are never revealed to the recipient. It’s always delivered anonymously."
Alastor tilted his head, his wide smile growing even wider then normal. "Indeed. An anonymous gesture of hospitality from the Realm to its newest sovereign. No names to get attached too, no praise to guilt trip another, and most importantly no political favors attached."
Vox stared at him, his mouth slightly open. "So when I got that chiffon cake on my first day... it was from you and Rosie. You never said a word about it."
"Why would I?" Alastor gave an airy, dismissive wave of his gloved hand. "It wasn't meant to buy your allegiance, my dear picture-box. It was simply a tradition. Rosie believed every new power in Hell deserved one moment of sweet, undisturbed celebration before the reality of Hell closed in around them.
Vox felt…well he didnt know exactly. For years, weather on earth or hell he never really had such a heartfelt effort made upon his behalf. Especially here where everyone first thought is to stab another in the back when you have the chance.
But knowing that on his very first terrifying, chaotic day in the Pentagram, Alastor and Rosie had quietly spent hours crafting something special just for him? It made his heart squeeze with a feeling of in a way he hadn't prepared for.
"And as I recall," Alastor added with a sly wink, "you devoured two whole slices." Indicating that Alastor had been watching him all those years ago. Who's the creep now Vox thought!?
A tiny, cyan blush appeared across Vox's screen before he quickly snapped his head away, coughing into his fist. "Well. The spun sugar was probably okay. I guess."
Clearing his throat, Vox picked up a pair of fine tweezers and a box of delicate gold leaf. He leaned over the cake, his screen flashing a thoughtful shade of purple.
"So," Vox began, trying to break the heavy silence. "Do we even know who this new kid is?"
Alastor dusted a light snowfall of edible glitter over the brown borders. "Carmilla was unusually tight-lipped. A fresh soul, rising to Overlord status in a matter of weeks? Quite the rare occurrence. I assumed they were a warlord or a politician in their former life."
Vox scoffed, tapping the side of his casing. A tiny, glowing holographic interface projected from his screen onto the countertop, displaying encrypted surveillance feeds. "Please. A politician wouldn't last two days in the Pentagram without getting eaten. I had my drones tracking the newest edition.
Alastor glanced at the flickering feed, pretending not to be interested, though his ears perked up. "Oh? Do enlighten me. What did your little mechanical flies discover?"
"First of all—not a guy," Vox said, swiping through a series of blurry, glowing silhouettes. "Definitely a woman. And her domain isn't brute force or territorial turf wars like the old-school crowd. My network detected a massive, sudden shift in soul-contracts across three different districts. She didn't march in with guns blazing she built an empire out of certain strategies, sharp intellect before anyone even noticed she was playing."
"Fascinating," Alastor said "Hmm a master strategist in our midst. "
"It's crazier than that," Vox whispered, zooming in on encrypted files. "Look at these cause-of-death reports and soul-contract records from Earth. On Earth, she was a writer. She held complete, narrative control over her audience. She wrote stories so compelling, so persuasive, that she could charm entire populations into believing whatever narrative she wanted them to see. Truth didn't matter. Facts didn't matter. If she wrote it, people adopted it as their gospel."
Alastor let out a rich, laugh, his radio static buzzing with delight. "Oh, magnificent! A true weaver of reality! To manipulate the masses…seems you might have some competition say old pal?”
Vox voiced stilled for only a moment before choosing to ignore what was just said.
“Ahem anyway…Yeah, and she brought that exact same power down here," Vox said, swiping to show the sudden shift in Hell’s market. "She arrived, picked up a pen, and within weeks, she rewrote the political landscape. She didn't have to fight for turf she literally wrote a narrative where the other overlords willingly handed over control, completely convinced it was their own idea."
"A woman who commands the story itself," Alastor whispered, as he placed the single golden candle right in the center of the cake. His razor-sharp smile widened with profound respect. "Hell has never seen an Overlord with such, dangerous talent."
Vox picked up a lighter, sparking a soft, cyan flame at the tip of the candle. A hint perhaps Vox thought slyly to himself it never hurts to get into good favors with the latest overlord and well technically he wasn't breaking the rules….exactly.
"Well. Then we'd better make sure this cake is perfect. You don't want to get on the bad side of someone who can rewrite your entire history with a single stroke of a pen."
"A wise observation, my dear picture-box," Alastor chuckled softly, picking up the silver platter. "Now, let us go welcome our new author of fate."
The mahogany doors to your private estate clicked open.
As Hell's newest and most formidable Overlord the master storyteller whose words could rewrite reality itself you stepped into your dimly lit parlor, shaking off the chill of the Pentagram outside.
Resting right in the center of your desk was a striking, silver-plattered package that hadn't been there when you left. Beside it sat a crisp, heavy parchment note stamped with Carmilla Carmine’s official wax seal:
To Hell’s Newest Sovereign,
Under Directive 404, accept this confection crafted by two of your fellow Overlords. As tradition dictates, their identities remain unnamed. May your reign be long, we shall meet at the next overlord meeting within the next weeks.
Curious, you pulled back the silver dome.
A rich, dark espresso chocolate cake rested before you, wrapped in smooth chocolate hand-piped borders. Tiny flakes of real gold leaf shimmered across the top, reflecting the soft glow of a single golden candle burning softly with a cyan flame in the very center.
It smelled heavenly a dark, comforting blend of rich cocoa, warm coffee, a hint vanilla bean.
You smiled, picking up the small silver cake server resting on the tray. Whoever those two nameless Overlords were, it seems they had spent hours making sure this moment felt special.
Meanwhile, hiding down the grand hallway around the corner, Vox was leaning against the velvet wallpaper, frantically trying to dim the bright blue glow of his screen. Beside him, Alastor stood with his back pressed to the wall, his ears twitched forward, listening intently through the static hum.
They heard the soft clink of silver, followed by a quiet, contented hum as you tasted the first bite.
Vox glanced sideways at Alastor, a faint, proud cyan smirk crossing his monitor. "She likes it," he whispered, keeping his voice lowered.
"Of course she does," Alastor said in a quiet whisper, adjusting his bowtie. "It was made by the two great overlords.”
Without another word, the two rivals turned and began walking quietly down the hallway together in silence a temporary, begrudging truce held intact by a single, perfectly baked cake for Hell's newest master of fate.