Chapter Text
Vincent woke up. Probably the worst decision he could’ve possibly made in that moment, he woke up. Electricity rippled through his body, the aftershock of the accident still rippling through his veins. He winced. He had never felt that much pain before in all his life. God, how long had he been passed out for..?
There was chatter all around him, of his followers, probably. They were all also jolting with electricity, all of them shaking slightly. Muttered confusion echoed all around them.
Where were they?
What happened?
They were all helping each other up off the ground, trying to shake off the remaining pain from the shocks.
Vincent started to stand up, his head pounding with the most horrible headache, feeling so much heavier than usual. Electricity radiated off his form, jolting him around slightly. God, if only his head would stop pounding…
“Where are we..?” His followers, the people who’d cared so much for his cause, were now pacing around, trying to find out where they were.
“Did we die??”
“What happened..?”
Vincent eventually managed to lift himself to his feet, wobbling slightly from the unnatural weight of his head. He couldn’t keep this up for much longer, it hurt too much, but he needed to reinforce his position.
“My loyal followers!!! This is just a… temporary setback… I’m working on it, just give me a small amount of time to-” He started, but couldn’t finish his sentence, as he was caught off guard by the people, HIS people, HIS loyal fans and followers, shuddering back in fear at the sight of him.
There were people pointing, people whispering, people cowering backwards, genuine fear in their eyes.
“Whittman- M-Mr. Whittman, what happened to your face..??”
Vincent raised an eyebrow (or at least, the digital equivalent of one) in confusion, now getting slightly worried seeing everyone look so horrified at the sight of him.
“What do you mean, my face is fine-”
He reached a hand up to inspect his head, immediately freezing the second that his hand did NOT meet his usually well kept grey hair, but hit a cold, metal box halfway there. His eyes widened slightly in shock, still trying to reach for his face, only to be stopped by the metal box every time. He clawed at the box, growing rapidly more panicked.
“What- what’s wrong with my face?? WHY ARE YOU ALL HIDING FROM ME?!”
They all hid back further, some straight up leaving. Others seemed too scared to leave, like he was gonna do something to them.
“You killed us!” One of them suddenly shouted. “We’re dead because of you!”
Vincent stumbled back slightly at the audacity of someone yelling at him, as if nobody had ever said something even remotely negative to him. He remained clawing at his face- box- whatever, as he looked upon the people staring at him in horror and rage.
“Everyone, please, I can fix this if you all just tell me what’s wrong with my-” Face, what’s wrong with his face. But he didn’t get to finish that thought, because his reflection on the window behind him answered his question before any of his followers could’ve.
His head was grotesquely bloodied and distorted into a squared shape, his skin stretching into a TVlike being. His screen- if you could call it that- was bright, shining like a television would. His head was rock hard, TV shaped, and no matter how he clawed at this monstrosity lacing his head, he could not get it off. His eyes widened in panic. His life’s primal instinct to defend his honor (and his rapidly declining appearance as he aged) was falling apart right in front of him.
He was a fucking TV. AND he was dead.
The people in the crowd dissipated, some running away in panic, some storming away in rage. Everyone was leaving. Nobody was going to help Vincent.
“WAIT!!!” He called out, trying to run after them, but the unnatural weight of his head made him unsteady. He fell over onto the ground before he could catch any of them, and he was unable to pull himself back up to his feet again. “SOMEONE HELP ME!!!”
No response.
Nobody gave a shit.
He couldn’t lift himself up to find help. He was trapped, in hell, on a dirty ass street, with nobody there to care about him. As he held back the shuddering sobs of overwhelming panic, nobody came to help him. He yanked and clawed and ripped at the TV head, trying to pry it off. Maybe there was skin and bone underneath. A skull. A trace of whatever gruesome accident remains.
Maybe someone out there was laughing, maybe god did this as a punishment for trying to be him on earth. Vincent was not sorry. But if this went on for much longer? He could be persuaded.
“SOMEBODY FUCKING HELP ME, PLEASE!!!” He cried out, he screamed, he begged, anything to get just a single soul who’d care to help him out of this.
But nobody came.
So Vincent sat there.
He sat there for a long time. He couldn’t get up, half from the paralyzing fear and despair, half from the fact that his head was so fucking heavy he couldn’t work his legs to properly lift himself. His sobs and screams eventually wore off, his voice running out of power to keep going. He let off a sharp wave of static. Fuck, he can do that now?
He eventually managed to gain the strength to stand again, albeit he was a bit shaky on his feet. He was still in the middle of the fucking street. If he’d learned anything throughout his life, it’s that being weak in front of the masses never ends well.
He dragged himself into a dark alleyway on the edge of the street corner. Hopefully he’d be alone to think of a step 2 to whatever failing plan he’d concocted.
He collapsed against the wall, still unable to support his own head. Despite how charming, strong, and resilient Vincent usually looked, he was nowhere near that deep down. He was a weak pathetic man baby who could not lift his own fucking head off the ground. A pathetic thing who had to hide in a dark alleyway so nobody could see him crying. God, he was so weak, wasn’t he? 5 hours in hell, and he’d already managed to make a mockery of himself, if his head hadn’t done so already. He just sat there in that alleyway for a while, trying to regain his bearings, get back his rapidly fleeing confidence.
And then he saw him.
---------------------
There was a man in the alleyway with him. Another sinner, probably. Another lost soul, another person so bastardly they got stuck down here like the pathetic trash god decided they were.
This man didn’t look like any of the other confident, terrifying demons he’d seen around hell. This man wasn’t strutting around like he was better than everyone else, or doing drugs like a damn junkie, or running away from everyone like a coward. This man was covered head to toe in blood, but only on the front of his body. This was not this man’s own blood, was it?
The thought made Vincent shudder, though he couldn’t tell if it was from fear, disgust, or excitement.
The man on the other side of the alleyway was tall, built like a twink, but definitely had enough muscle and meat on his bones to still be fairly threatening. The man was decently attractive, but Vincent couldn’t focus on the aesthetic pleasure of the man. He was more... Confused? Concerned? This man’s mouth was covered in blood, and he was desperately vomiting up bones like a cat hacking up a hairball. Vincent didn’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted by how insane the man in front of him looked.
The man eventually looked up, noticing Vincent staring at him, and just stared at him like a deer in headlights for a second. He eventually regained his composure and quickly grabbed his discarded corset (which was previously thrown on the dirty ground of the alleyway like a used tissue) and tightened it around his waist with the direness of a starving man, wiping the blood off his mouth with his sleeve.
“You saw nothing,” The man said. His voice had a radiolike filter to it, like he was speaking through a microphone from the 1930s.
“I saw nothing,” Vincent replied. They both just sat there for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes with the silent understanding that this shall never be brought up again for as long as they both live.
“You could continue, the uh- the whatever the fuck you were doing just now,” Vincent mumbled. He didn’t want to interfere with this powerful looking man’s schedule. Better to mind his own business and hope this man doesn’t eat HIM next. “I can look the other way.”
The man’s ears- those adorably fluffy deer ears- fuck, why did he have those- tilted back at the suggestion. He didn’t respond, he just sat there like a deer in headlights. Unmoving, not looking away. The unwavering smile on the man’s face was a fairly unsettling visage to have staring at him, but Vincent could tolerate it as long as he wasn’t the one being eaten.
Or who knows, this might just be how this rabid animal of a man stalks his prey.
It didn’t look like it though.
This man just looked sick. He looked full already. He probably didn’t want to eat Vincent. Or at least, he hoped.
He still backed away slightly from the man. There was something feral, something terrifying, behind those red eyes of his. He wasn’t able to properly maneuver himself away, stupid uncooperative body, but he could get far enough away to where the man couldn’t pounce if he felt like it.
Fuck, this was just like those crazy fans Vincent used to have. Those people who’d stare at him, usually in longing. In hunger, but not the type of hunger this man clearly meant.
USED to have, oh god, used. He doesn’t have those crazy fans anymore. He doesn’t have his NORMAL fans anymore. He doesn’t have anybody anymore. He doesn’t even have his life, he has this cold, dark alleyway. And he doesn’t even have THAT to himself. He’s never going to have his life or his fans back. He’s never going to have his dream of being a god come true, who can be a god when you’re at the bottom of the food chain? If you’re LITERALLY in hell?!
Vincent couldn’t hold back his agonized tears anymore, as they came rushing back out with the glory of a bull. He couldn’t hide them if he tried.
He couldn’t stop shaking. Fuck, he was going to rot forever in a dark creepy alleyway with his only compainion being the creepy red deer guy who looks a second away from pouncing. The thought makes him wince.
His face was ruined.
His pride was destroyed.
He lost everyone he had.
He lost so much.
He-
“Smile.”
Such simple words. Not words, ONE word. Just one. And it came from the creepy deer man.
“What..?” Vincent was still sniffling and shaking like hell. He couldn’t calm himself down for a second. But he still had to process whatever the heck the man at the other side of the alley said. Except the man WASN’T at the other side of the alley anymore. He was right there, next to Vin.
“I said smile, my dear! A frown like that looks good on no one!” His voice, his stupid radio voice, sounded so much more chipper than it did just a few minutes ago.
“Smile..? Well, what if I can’t smile, then what... what if smiling’s, like, not embedded in my code, or whatever,” Vincent muttered back. He didn’t want to smile. He wanted to be difficult. He wanted to put up a fight. He didn’t want to listen to this weirdo.
“Then you’ll smile anyways!!”
“No I won’t.” What the hell was up with this guy..?
“Fine. If you want to be like that, be like that. Look pathetic in front of ALLLLL of hell? That’s such a good way to gain influence! Such a good way to gain power. Why didn’t I think of that?” Sarcasm. God, why was this man so good at making Vincent defensive. This stupidly adorable (and terrifying) man.
“You should mind your own business, is what I think,” Vincent grumbled. Stupid deer guy.
“I don’t care what you think, dear, your opinions don’t phase me,” The man said. Had... had Vincent tamed the man? Like a dog? Had he tamed a wolf to the point where he’ll sit there like a good boy and NOT try to eat him?
Vincent wasn’t sure.
All he knew was he was somehow going to get out of this situation alive. Or, at least, as alive as you can be after death.
“Then why did you give me a suggestion-”
“Who are you?” The man asked, interrupting Vincent before he could ask a question he didn’t want to answer. “I’ve never seen a person with such a... strange object on their head.”
“First of all, it's a TV, second of all, it’s not on my head, it is my head,” Vincent winced at the reminder. This really is his reality now, isn’t it?
“You didn’t answer my question,” The man said, coming slightly closer. “Who are you?”
Vincent panicked. Crap, what if this man knew him when he was alive but just... didn’t recognize him now? What if this man heard of his reputation? Vincent Whittman, world’s most shitty cult leader, that’d leave an impression. So, he just said the first thing to come to his mind.
“Uhhh, Vox!!!” Fuck, what kind of a name is VOX?! Nice going, Vincent, now he’s gonna think you’re stupid. “Serial killer, before I died, you probably never heard of me.”
Was he trying to sound cool to this man?? Yes. Yes he was.
“So it’s VOX!! Don’t believe we ever had the pleasure of meeting then!!! Welcome to my alleyway. Please kindly leave now!” The man cocked his head to the side in a condescending manner, trying to shoo Vincent away.
“Yeah yeah, fine, I-I’m going…” Vincent begrudgingly dragged himself out of the alleyway, barely being able to carry himself away. Crap, back to broad daylight he goes. Where everyone can see him losing his shit over such a stupid-
“Wait!” The man called back. WHAT DOES HE WANT NOW?! “Don’t- ACK- Don’t leave yet, wait-” The man ran out of the alleyway in close pursuit of Vincent, weakly grabbing the back of his jacket.
“What-”
“Don’t tell anyone,” the man... pleaded. Don’t tell anyone? Who was he to tell in the first place? It’s not like he has any friends to begin with, nobody to tell. “About what you saw in the alleyway. You hallucinated it, it didn’t- okay, maybe it did happen, but don’t tell anyone you saw that... please.”
PLEASE?!
THIS BITCH SAID PLEASE?!
“I-I won’t tell, not a soul,” Vincent said shakily. He didn’t want to make this man angry- BAD idea.
“Very good, dear. Not a SOUL,” The man restated.
“I won’t, I won’t!! But... who... are you..?” Vincent asked hesitantly. Maybe he didn’t need to know.
“Why, I’m the radio demon, my dear! Everyone in the pentagram has at least some idea of who I am here, I’m a very respected member of the society!”
Oh, so Vincent was talking to an important person, okay, good to know he’d completely ruined ONE first impression.
“And I’m- not, exactly..? But I WAS very powerful when I was alive! Had a massive following, you know? Very rich, very famous, very-”
“White?” The radio demon’s voice was laced with condescension. “Most famous people of our time are. I’d like to consider myself the exception to that mold, but... you seem like a spoiled rich entitled white man.”
“I don’t know if you’re saying that as an insult, or a compliment..? I’m just gonna assume it’s the latter.”
“It’s not.”
“Okay. Welp-” Ahhh, good job Vincent, nice to see you’re STILL embarrassing yourself. “Well... you know, maybe white people were the successful ones in the entertainment business for a reason? Maybe we whites were better off in general-”
“Think again, before finishing that sentence,” The radio demon’s eyes glowed red. Probably a good time to back off and stop.
Especially since Vincent was half Korean.
Not even a full white? You can’t be racist in this economy if you’re not a full white. Oh well, he’s a TV head now, this radio bitch doesn’t need to know that. This radio bitch WON’T know about that.
And the idea that there’s this big part of his personality and self that this weirdo in the alleyway will never know? It fills him with the overwhelming feeling of power.
“I’ll think again…” Vincent reluctantly stopped being racist.
“Very good,” The radio demon nodded, and started to walk off. Vincent managed to stop him with a weak mumble.
“You never told me your name,” He spoke up.
The man hesitated for a moment, before his grin widened slightly and he turned his head to look Vincent in the eye.
“Alastor,” he said. It was like nobody had asked him his name before. Like the word was new on his tongue. “My name is Alastor.”
And with that?
The man walked off.
And Vincent was alone again.