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“I’ve got to admit Old Timer, a night out on the dancefloor is totes needed right now.” Velvette says, her forehead resting against the tinted limousine windows where the very obvious daylight shines through.
Beyond the glass, the riff raff wander through their mundane little lives, running like ants to their shitty jobs, gorging themselves on every screen their sad little eyes could handle, forking their money hand over fist for the latest gadget, latest clothing, latest X-rated film, all for the benefit of the three beings lounging in the vehicle being chauffeured to a quaint little dance hall that somehow still existed in the V’s own district.
A quaint little dance hall that, as they pulled closer, didn’t seem to fit the aesthetic of the surrounding area in the slightest - all modern glass, and neon-lit. Instead, it sat, squat and unimpressive, like a knick-knack that had fallen between the cracks, like a time-capsule long forgotten. To Velvette, it was outdated, not even last season outdated, but maybe last century. In her head, she’d pictured being dazzled by lasers and blinding lights, feeling the pounding bass through her doll-like joints, rubbing shoulders with Pride’s up-and-coming wannabes who would no doubt drown them in any booze they desired and bend to their whims.
This place was not the vibe she had been hoping for.
“Now this baby, this was my first real piece of Pentagram City.” Vox gushes, dragging the two overlords in tow even before the limousine has even come to a complete stop. He doesn't seem to notice - or care - that he’s currently got her doll-jointed arm in a particularly inhuman position, or that his prissy bitch of a partner has almost brained his bald head off the vehicle’s door frame.
The entrance doors to the building aren't even automatic, instead slamming loudly against a horribly beige support column, opening into a huge hall as the older man barrels through. Into the far wall, a stage is set. Velvette can almost imagine how grand it must have been, with plush crimson drapes, and bright limelight.
Almost.
Time, and lack of upkeep, had not been kind to this place, like most things in hell. What had once been a pristine wooden floor - oiled and polished to a shine the influence overlord could have used as a mirror for a particularly well-crafted selfie - was scuffed and tacky, stained and sullied. The drapes were no longer crimson, but a horrible light-aged pink, and moth-eaten. A few metal frames that could be chairs sat gathered around a lone conductor's stand on the stage. From the layer of dust on the items, Velvette can guess this place hasn't had a tune played in it for a few decades at least.
Near a dilapidated bar, a number of booths lay empty, their vinyl covered seats peeling, stained, and dusty. Shark-demons, at least a dozen or so, were huddled around a single tiny table, their glasses sporting a surprising array of various coloured liquids all partially drunk, shoulder-to-shoulder, fin-to-tail. Their eyes track the overlords as they turn to take in the hall’s vaulted ceiling. One beam was fit to break, the cracks evident in its structure, and it might have been the dim and dying bulbs in the hanging lights, but Velvette swore there were fire-doves resting up in the eaves.
Velvette’s nose wrinkled, lip curling. “Ugh. I’ve changed my mind, put me back in the limo, I’m leaving.” She turns on her heel, making it two steps before a larger, clawed hand, circles her wrist and tugs her back, sharply. Vox’s screen shows a rare, earnest look, as his palms smooth over her shoulders in placation.
“Vel… Hey, come on! Loosen up a little! You won't even have to spend a dime, not even a soul. This one is on me.”
Velvette’s perfectly plucked eyebrows apparently thought meeting her equally well maintained hairline was a point of order, as she felt her face move before her brain caught up with it. Now this WAS rare. Best not to let the old geezer forget and charge double.
“Oh Voxxy! It’s just how I remember it!” Velvette’s gaze darts to watch the moth’s eyes widen comically large, taking in every stain, every curl of peeling wallpaper, every aging piece of furniture like it’s an old friend. A shiver flutters through the taller overlord, from the tip of his antenna to the toe of his boots. Violently, he wheels back round to Vox. “Ooo! Papito, where is the music? Where are the lights? They were always so gorgeous.”
Sometimes, Velvette forgot Vox was, under it all, a man. A man who somehow had fallen for the damn psychotic moth. But fallen nonetheless. A grin crossed his screen, all shark-teeth and gums.
“Val, baby. Do you think I’d disappoint you? Here of all places?” His voice is honey-sweet and sickly, and Vel feels her nose wrinkle when she realises he’s being… sincere.
Ugh, Disgusting.
Val’s grin somehow, too, gleams in the poor lighting. Equally sharp as the man beside him. One of his sets of arms is wandering, seemingly drawn to trace the seams of Vox’s jacket, brushing the vicuna-fabric aimlessly as he hangs on Vox’s words.
A single cyan-tipped hand rises, and a snap sounds out, claw-tip against claw-tip. Static rolls over the dance hall like a wave, just for a nano-second, electricity itself lighting the whole room and then winking out of existence before she can even perceive it. But not quick enough that she doesn’t feel the hair on her head lift, or watch Valentino's antenna fluff up as much as his neck-ruff before laying flat once more.
There’s the sound of feedback and groans coming vaguely from the stage. Once empty, now a gaggle of rather confused looking pride citizens sit with instruments and sheet music, their clothing and paper smoking slightly, adding to the musk of the hall. The conductor - a harried saytr-looking demon - tries to hurriedly get her musicians in some semblance of order. The sound of shaky scales and out of tune strings fills the space, the first music in what Vel can think must be an age.
Around the hall, she watches as wires and cables begin to snake and crawl, as new speakers and lights pop into existence through the power of the CEO of VoxTech, lining the hall’s walls. A single limelight sprouts from above the stage, its white-hot glow focused squarely on the three of them on the dancefloor.
Beside her, Val squeaks in joy. Quickly, she snaps an image, applies a filter, a few tasteful emojis, and sends it to her followers.
“Oi, Asshole.” A sharp voice pierces the ongoing chaos of orchestral tuning.
All three Vees look up.
“Not you, him!”
Vox and Val continue to stare blankly at the skinny, mean-looking hammerhead in a particularly ill-fitting three piece, his little bowler sat between his wide-set eyes.
“This is our place now, so scram. Ain’t no one used this place in years.” A chorus of ‘yeahs’ pipe up, each shark-demon rising from their seats, approaching the edge of the worn dance floor. The sound of cocking guns and clinking chains adding to the finally tuned-up musicians.
Vox’s smile, when he speaks, is predatory, ever the business-man. “I think I must have misheard you there, friend. I could have sworn you said you were claiming this territory. Acoustics ain't what they used to be in here.”
The hammer-headed demon, once again steps forward, and pulls up a loaded tommy gun.
Without looking away from the encircling demons, Vox extends a hand to the man beside him. “Would you have this dance, Valentino?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Taking the smaller demon's clawed hand, Val spins, wings unfurling under the limelight's gaze, as a shot rings out, and the hammer-head mafioso drops to the ground, Moneyshot’s bullet straight and true between his wide-brow, bowler hat blown backwards by the force of the shot. The barrel smokes, its wisps twisting as Vox pulls the moth back to himself, taking a step sideways, using Valentino’s momentum to sling him over the crook of his elbow. The dip is perfect, Valentino one long sensuous arch as his leg kicks up, the vinyl shining against vox’s glowing claws that encircle his calf, greedily. Vox brings his mouth to the smoking barrel, eyes never leaving Valentino’s and blows a gentle breath, entwining a spark of blue with the curling smoke.
Chaos erupts, chairs tip, tables flip. Velvette watches as the bartender doesn’t even bat one of his many eyelids, just keeps wiping a singular glass with a rather worn looking rag.
“HEY!” The speakers hiss and pop as Vox’s voice thunders through them. “Get the music going, and don’t you even fucking think of missing a single beat, you got me?” The conductor nods her head so vigorously that Velvette is surprised the demon hasn’t given herself brain damage.
Instead, the conductor turns her back to the carnage and sets a brusque beat, baton in hand, committed to the rhythm as the band starts up. A punchy bass scored by the crash cymbals, trumpets thundering as the piano’s ivories were tinkled to within an inch of their inanimate undead lives. A twisted melange of 1950’s jazz punctuated by hails of gun fire and the sound of splintering wood.
Unabidden, Velvette feels one foot start to tap against the wooden flooring.
This she could work with.
She wanders through a volley of shots, not even turning her head. The sound of footsteps rushing up behind her is the only reason she flicks a wrist, and the offending shark-demons shirt tightens - that roomy XXL shrinking down to a rather tight XXS - and the sound of wheezing is all she needs as confirmation as she drops into one of the booths and starts to set up her live-stream as the unfortunate shark-demon drops to the floor, his eyes bulging and tongue lolling, choked by his collar.
In the centre of the maelstrom, the eye of the storm, Vox and Valentino twirl in sync with the beat, never missing a step, never dropping a point of connection.
Sure, she's seen them dance in the past. All the fucking time to be quite honest. Dancing when a new deal is struck, when the Radio demon had disappeared after heaven's attack, after break-ups and make-ups, when they made souls, lost souls, and everything in between. It was some unspoken thing between them, some unbreakable tether that the many fights and petty spats could never sever.
As the key changes, Val takes the lead, one set of hands wantonly tracing up and down the smaller man's back, the other pair guiding the smaller man, who is willingly let himself be lead round the floor, mirroring the taller demon’s steps with the same flair and gusto.
Together the pair waltz through the barrage of bullets, or maybe they quick step, she’s not entirely sure what dance moves they are pulling but she definitely hasn't seen them in any of Pride's seedy clubs or strutted by her catwalk models down a runway.
They twirl and dip, artfully dodging knife-wielding demons as they try and slash at them, only to slice thin air, and feel the hot muzzle of Valenino’s pride and joy in retribution. Under the beat of the music, Valentino’s laughter weaves, and she sees Vox’s expression soften, screen fuzzier and brighter than she's seen it in some time. There’s a sudden flash, as Vox’s form shrinks down to a single strand of pure electricity, arcing around the moth-demon from head to toe, barely brushing his form, leaving puffed up fur and scales in his wake as he regains his corporeal form, grinning.
A shrieking battle cry echoes above the orchestra, a smaller nurse-shark demon in a two-piece and monocle, his brogues flapping against the hardwood. With a snap of her jointed fingers, the laces of his shoes come alive, twisting and knotting until they tangle together, his face meeting the dancefloor before he can even make it to the pair.
She narrows a glare at the bar-tender, still behind his heavy-set workplace. With the ease of an uninterested being, he grabs glasses and bottles and shakes away. She is almost surprised as the demon picks his way through the fight, drink resting on a surprisingly clean sliver tray, not a single drop spilt.
She waves him off, already taking a sip. The sharp edge of whiskey, chased by the over-sweetness of cherry oozes over her palette. Of course Vox had the place stocked for Manhattans. So she sips, and scrolls, and stares at the battle. Only occasionally warding away a stray demon or two who venture too close and can’t read the vibe she's throwing out. A few sleeves turned to tourniquets and belts strangling their owners soon wards them away once more.
The tornado of electric blue and crimson-white start their orbit back towards her, close enough she can have some fun.
She points at Valentino, and the white pants that hug the long lines of his legs twist and flutter, layers of ruffled fabric blooming from the seams. Without missing a single beat, both dancers change their stances, Valentino's lower arms raising the edges of his new skirt, flicking them rhythmically in time with his steps, as Vox’s steps back to allow Val more space. Perfectly attuned. In-sync.
She smiles, sickly sweet, as she shouts over the punchy drum line. “What do you think, Val? How about something to really bring the old geezer to this century?” Her fingers itch as she levels her finger at Vox. The pop and swish of fabric sounds as pin-stripe and tie vanish.
“Ve- Give me my suit back!”
“Oh Boohoo, you’ve got Velvette originals back at the tower, grow up, wear something different, you’re getting stale old man.”
Lazily, she traces her finger through the air, feeling her power surge. Vincena to Cotton, to polyester, to lace, to silk. Vox’s clothes shift and change at her whim, capped sleeves, to ruffles, a sleek button down to an airy doublet, a pressed double-breasted suit to a boned corset.
Behind his tinted glasses, Valentino's eyes flash. “Oh, that one! Can you make it a little tighter in the-.”
A finger snap, echoing as loud as a gun in the cavernous dance hall. Vox’s new corset loses that extra breathing room, cinching even tighter against a crisp short-sleeved shirt. Under the thrum of battle and bops, Vel is sure she can hear Vox’s fans kick up a gear. She’s also sure she can hear Val’s squeaking go down an octave, something more resonant, more feral.
Satan, she wanted out of this now.
Val’s hands seek out Vox, pawing at the corsets lacing, the rigid ribs of the corset, the edge of his screen, an exposed forearm. Her eyes roll. How positively puritan, the whore-king see’s his old man’s bare arms and wants to ravage him. She’s lived every permutation of this story. She knows every happy ending - and then some - and would much rather be out the blast radius ASAP. Swiping at her phone, she orders the chauffeur back on pain of a second worse death.
“Now boys, if you’re going to do this here, at least stop playing with your food and let me the fuck out.”
Abruptly, the gunfire stops. Heads pop above furniture parapets, as the shark-demons turn to look at each other first in confusion, and then in growing horror.
“You’re such a killjoy, princesa.” Valentino whines, petulant and greedy, hands never leaving Vox for a second.
“Nah, she’s right Val.” The older overlord croons, lifting their clasped hands to press a kiss far more delicate than Velvette’s ever witnessed to Valentino’s knuckles. Under the singular limelight, Valentino’s antennas quiver. “I think we deserve to have a bit more fun.”
“Vel, if you don't mind, my dear…”
One last snap of her fingers and she can hear Vox’s fans kick down a notch as his suit returns to his form. She can see a wave of familiar comfort roll through him as he takes a breath, and smiles with all his teeth.
The lights, incandescent, sodium-warm, and ancient, begin to buzz. Brighter and brighter they shine, until Velvette has to squint, a hand lifting to cover her brow as the electrical whine crescendos over the band's wailing. Around the room, the lesser demons try and scatter, running to boarded up windows and doors that just won't give. They pound and flail, shout and scream but the band keeps playing to their cries and the buzzing doesn't stop growing, rumbling, like a swarm of locusts, like an oncoming tidal wave.
With a series of pops and a flashing arch of blue electricity, the glass bulbs explode. Sparks of yellow and white shower down, falling like stars and snow onto the wood as they burn out, winking from existence. Standing beneath the downpour are two overlords with razor sharp grins and glowing eyes.
Valentino exhales, and the wisps of pink swirl with the dying sparks, beautiful and deadly. The smoke curls around Velvette, and she inhales, used to the heady high the pheromones can give, should Valentino allow it. Thicker and thicker the pheromones fill the hall, until Velvette can barely see a soul out on the dancefloor. Somewhere far away, she hears a trumpeter cough, their note spasming out as they try to regain their breath.
The band's tempo switches. Something more punchy, more foreboding, as two shadows appear in the mist. A great set of wings spread, churning the smoke in great vortexes of turbulence as their owner ascends to the beams above. Below, the sound of ripping fabric and breaking glass adds a new layer to the score, as a great figure looms, teeth jagged, screen broken, and a great red orb staring through the haze.
Screams start once more, and Velvette turns her back to the carnage, decidedly one sided, and starts snapping away as blood arcs, claws flash cyan blue, cables snake along the wooden floor, and a muzzle flashes from above, dropping bodies to the floor.
-
They burst back out to pride minutes later, just as she places a hand onto Vox’s lapel and directs an iota of her power to restitch his clothes, fixing split seams and ripped fabric. One day that man would learn to look after his suits when he unleashes his full demon form.
The pair are laughing still, Valentine’s upper set of arms looping round Vox’s shoulders, Vox’s arm round Valentino’s slim waist. Through the slight gap in the door, the band still haven’t stopped, and neither have the groans of the dying mafioso’s.
With the squeal of rubber, they depart the dance hall, back in their little bubble. It’s Vox who breaks the silence as the neon lights flash through the windows.
“Eh, that place has always been on some prime real estate, maybe it is time to drag it into the future after that last hurrah.”