Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There were a great deal of things he missed after his descent into Hell. 

Combing his fingers through his hair as he tried to hide the premature grey strands. Being able to smile and charm his way to success, the chips in his teeth somehow found endearing by some. Getting his hands dirty when those failed him. The compliments he got over his unnatural, freaky eyes, even if he knew most were backhanded. The control he had over his followers, without anyone the wiser of it. His words treated just like gospel without any need for supernatural assistance. 

He even missed his own name at times, as pathetic as that was.

Then he was stuck with two stupid-looking TV antennas that were stuck on an (thankfully no longer as bulky) idiotic TV for a face (which, in and of itself, was a horrible find considering his rather asinine death included a TV landing on his head. He certainly didn’t try ripping it off the first chance he had, resulting in him discovering that no, the TV was actually a part of him now. Nope, definitely not…). 

Sure, one could almost pretend he had hair by twirling his antennas as Valentino had liked to do, but it was pointless: it just wasn’t the same (not to mention that one wrong move and his face would be on the fritz). His smile was now marred by electrifying jagged teeth, and the charm he was so proud of in life could now be seen through as easily as glass by anyone with a brain (which, thankfully, wasn’t too many, but that was more than he admittedly wanted). And in Hell, there were no leeways or doubts regarding murder. Yeah, it was commonplace, but that meant being accused was just as easily believed. And those who fell in the same pit as himself knew what to look for (and… you know… the fact that they typically didn’t stay dead (which was quite an interesting thing to learn after his first few murders in his new home), barring death by angelic steel). 

At least in life, the black-and-white of the screen helped hide the dual-colored nature of his eyes. But now, they glowed a burning crimson, the one offset by an outline of cyan as if to serve as a reminder of what he once had, what he took for granted once upon a time. At least his old eyes were somewhat pleasant to look at, gentle on the eyes compared to his current neon gaze. And while he had control over so many denizens of Hell, a part of him was perturbed over the fact that he had to rely on his stupid hypnosis tricks instead of his words most of the time. Before, his words had the potential to change a nation. Now, everyone in the fiery depths knew not to trust anyone at the risk of their own soul, leaving him forced to entice his fellow sinners with just a glance into his eye. Efficient, but so little work went into it. Tragically easy. No thrill to be had.

…and whoever heard of an Overlord named Vincent?

So he rebranded. 

He became Vox, the TV demon. The ‘Media Overlord’. The CEO of VoxTek. 

He grew to tolerate his appearance and accept it. Even come to appreciate and like it, even with all the downsides that came with it. For what else was there to do? It wasn't like he had it the worst down in Hell. Appearance-wise, that is. 

He once saw a guy with a constantly on metronome for a head. If that was him, he would have killed himself as soon as he realized. 

There was one thing, however, that he missed more than anything else.

Dreams.

Perhaps his dreams were not the most pleasant to some when he was human. Sometimes, they were nonsensical and faded by morning. The remnants that remained leaving him questioning his own psyche or wondering if he had eaten something bad the night before. Other times, he was visualizing his plans in his mind: the right way to stab, the way to set up what looked like a suicide, a ‘tragic accident’ at the workplace. But mainly, they involved him envisioning himself rising higher and higher, reaching for the Heavens themselves so that all would look up to him. Where no one commented about his unconventional appearance, where no one would ever doubt his word, where he would never be pathetic and weak under another’s heel again, unable to act. 

Upon arriving in Hell, Vox had been plagued with memories instead. At times, they were pleasant and allowed him to reminisce over his kills, the rush he had each time he toed the line close enough to almost get caught, the incompetence of the police who never questioned how he was somehow always involved in some way, either centric or on the outskirts. Other times, they were awful. His own personal sitcom of his worst failures broadcast into his sleeping mind, unable to do anything but watch it over and over again. 

The mockery of a young boy, whose glasses were held only by tape at the bridge. The thick lenses enlarging his eyes and drawing further attention to their strangeness. His home reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, the floor littered with shattered bottles and the butts left to burn into it. The almost glacial gaze of his father, whose hands always seemed too eager to act, who only served to reinforce everything Vincent heard outside of their home. And Spot… poor Spot… His mother’s dull expression, watching it all with a simple puff of smoke, with eyes that, despite matching the leaves of the plants outside, held no life of their own within them. Asking a girl he liked to a dance only to be laughed at, the girl smiled wide as she declared she wasn’t interested in anything ‘lavender’(?) as her friends continued to snicker in the background. Of being denied moving on from his position as a weatherman to becoming a news anchor because he ‘didn’t have the face for real television’ (at least, not until he made them see…), all the while staring pointedly at his chipped teeth and dual-colored eyes. 

His death…

As time progressed in Hell, Vox had gotten pretty good at managing the memories. His new form being so technologically based, and his ability to shift his mindset from ‘organic’ and ‘human’ to ‘electronic’, made things so much simpler for him. It took a few decades to learn, but he could gather the memories he didn’t like and just file them away into a folder, labeling it as ‘Trash’ despite never deleting them for whatever reason. Same for the pleasant ones. All he had to do was ensure the good ones were loaded up before sleeping, and he would get a restful night of sleep, watching reruns of his greatest moments. 

… But since Alastor’s return, the trash folder had seemingly exploded, overwhelming the positive memories. Not that it wasn’t anyone's fault but his own. He should have just gotten rid of them in the first place. 

…not that he was doing anything to stop them now. 

Vox had been petulant with his defeat. Who wouldn’t be? He had been kicked off his masterful weapon by Velvette and had his head frickin’ torn off by Valentino who took advantage of Vox’s distraction via a quick peck on the lips, stunning him enough by the sudden desired and oh so delicious wait, he can’t—he can’t, not again— affection, and the audacity that Valentino did it in public. Where everyone could see them and mock Vox for it. 

Then the stupid princess, her sanctimonious angel friend-thing, and all the other misfits she had collected came together to perform their stupid ‘Power of Friendship’ song to stop his Might of Lilith from exploding and taking himself and Alastor Heaven and Hell with it. And the fact that the other Overlords joined in?! What the fuck was that?! He had to convince them to join him, but all the high-and-mighty princess and angel had to do was sing a little tune, and everyone was like, ‘Alright, let’s do this.’? No, fuck that bullshit. 

And you know what, fuck Velvette and Valentino, too. They were so close to their goal: of reaching Heaven, of ascending into Godhood… and they just bailed on him like that? Stripped him away from his moment? First when he was fighting Alastor, then joining in with the princess’s stupid song? Just because he got a little carried away, they thought they were right to just leave him? 

Yeah, maybe he forgot about them a little. But come on. They also both had their moments that were just as bad, and he never embarrassed them over it… Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have arranged Velvette’s ‘apology’ that way, but what else was he supposed to do? He needed Carmilla for the weapon, and there was no way she was going to listen without a little give, so to speak.

…and maybe he could have been nicer to Valentino… he hadn’t watched his words like he typically did with him… and he did ignore him a bit while Vox was trying to impre–

Wait, no. Valentino did it just as many times to him, with him running off with Angel Dust whenever he damn well pleased. Valentino should learn that you get what you give, and has given it plenty of times to Vox. 

The fact that Velvette and Valentino just left him. Not just during his moment of triumph but in the fucking lobby too, propped against some debris like he was just part of the decor, while they went upstairs to ‘freshen themselves up’ or some other bullshit, with fucking ANgeL dUst trailing after them like a lost puppy. It made him want to froth at the mouth. The way Valentino caressed that spider whore’s hand as he guided him away filled Vox with such disgust and rage and longing. 

And they took Shok.wav with them! His poor baby stared at him with his big, old red eyes, clearly not wanting to leave Vox’s side. But Velvette managed to pull up some of Shok.wav’s favorite fish treats, and he followed them up with a little extra wiggle in his tail.

So Vox was left alone with his thoughts and memories. His shouts left unanswered, save for a look by Velvette and Valentino that Vox didn’t know how to interpret before they vanished from his sight. Sparks started to fall like snow as he felt his rage grow, felt his monitor grow hotter, saw the start of code begin to form as his vision began to glitch. 

Vox forced himself to take a breath. 

He couldn’t afford shorting himself out. The lack of body meant that there was less space for the electricity he generated to dissipate, forcing it to course through his head, which was not as accommodating towards such a high input of energy compared to when he’s whole. 

He had to remain focused, stay in the present. To hold his tongue. To keep his emotions in check. 

He wasn’t a woman after all…

…fuck, he hoped Velvette never learned that he thought that for a second…

Vox’s eyes drifted to a nearby computer, the screen somehow still on. Slowly, he let one of his cables reach toward it. He might as well see how bad a hit VoxTek took after all that happened. Surely, it couldn’t be that bad, though. Like, yeah, he saw his approval rating drop during his fight with that damn prick and certainly felt a hit to his powers because of it. But Hell moved on fast from things. Opinions changed by the day, with only a word or two needed to influence the masses. It had been what, a few hours? He was sure that his approval would be back up to 75% by now, and it was just him being stuck as a head that made him unable to feel his power. Not the best, definitely lower than Valentino’s and Velvette’s, but easy enough to recover from. 

The cable connected to the computer.

Multiple pop-ups blocked his vision, each highlighting how truly pathetic he was. His face dropped at the sight of it all, rage vanishing like Valentino’s strawberry-scented smoke. Yet, just like how the smell seemed to cling to everything Valentino owned and would linger on Vox’s own clothes at times, so did each of the images and videos that blocked Vox’s sight from everything in front of him. 

And the comment sections…

‘Aknfoiafnioafo! what an idiot! 🤣’

‘If I’m ever like that, just leave me out for an exorcist to find, ROFL’

‘so no one’s concerned about the fact he tried to kill us? like… what?’

‘How is some1 like this an Overlord? ‘Oooo let me blow up every1 cause the deer guy wont fuck me’. Give me a break 🙄’

Vox catalogued each one, tried to save the names so that once he had his body back, he knew who needed a reminder of who he was. Because how dare they question him like this, mock him like this? 

But the hate threads continued to multiply until he just couldn’t keep track anymore. More and more hashtags began to populate, some variation of insulting him or wanting him dead. He shifted his attention to the bar that showed his approval rating and felt his stomach drop despite not having one at the moment. 

35%...

…and it was still dropping….

Vox startled when something slammed on the locked lobby doors. A moment later, more banging began to echo through the empty room. He could just make the shouts of those outside, calling for his head on a spike. 

Vox shifted his attention to something else, anything else. But all the feeds were of the same thing: him and his failure. 

It… couldn’t have been that bad, right? Vox knew he took it a bit far, but plenty of sinners of the past had done so, so why was everyone so focused on him (although they never actually got close to killing everyone in the afterlife, now did they?)? He would… he would remember this, right? 

RIGHT?!

But all he could see was Alastor’s permanent, ear-to-ear grin. 

Vox moved on to the videos. Recordings that he had Channel 666 record to document his ascension to Godhood. The amateur footage of sinners who dared get close enough to witness history firsthand. 

“You know what?” Vox watches in disbelief at himself atop the Might of Lilith. At the maniac grin as he stared down at Carmilla, the way his voice was full of static and fluctuated in volume. Uncontrollable. 

This… this isn’t how it happened… right? 

“FUCK HELL, FUCK HEAVEN, AND FUCK ALL OF YOU!” The recording continued, unaware that the subject was watching the past unfiltered by bias, stupefied as a tear dropped from his recorded self’s eye as he turned to face him. “As long as I wipe that smile off of Alastor's FUCKING FACE…”

“...I don't care what happens…” 

Another shift. Desperate for proof that it was just a bad angle. That he just misspoke (Alastor’s smile starting to fade from his mind, yet still lingering). The camera was shaky, but he could see Valentino gripping his shirt tightly before tossing him away, his past self stumbling but hiding it. Velvette making her way over to stare him down with Valentino. Their lips moved, but no sound could be heard from them, yet he could hear them as clear as day, like it happening once again.

He could see his own mouth moving on the screen, see the moment he pushed Valentino away from him, yet the only thing he could hear was the end.

“—I’M A FUCKING GOD!!” 

His voice sounded worse, glitching and the faintest tremor in it that no one but he could hear. Yellow electric sparks bounced off him, blending in with the similar sparks that danced across the surface of the overloading weapon. Vox let the video continue playing, witnessing Valentino ripping off his head, with electricity and blood splattered from the sudden decapitation. Watched as he gathered Vox and Velvette into his arms and tried to fly away, only for his beautiful (oh, his poor–) wings to be found burnt well enough that flight would be impossible through typical means.

Vox ripped the cable out, snapping it back to him. Everything vanished, and he could see his ruined lobby again…

And yet, he still saw everything. 

The comment threads grew longer. 

More and more video clips were uploaded by the second. 

His rating was at 15% now. 

He went into his memory files, desperately scanning them, ignoring how the banging only grew louder by the second, the cries melting into an incomprehensible screech. There had to be a reason the videos don’t match his memories, right? Maybe the clips were doctored? Maybe the way they were being presented was influencing his own remembrance of the events? Because… because none of this made any fucking senSE! Vox knew this wasn’t how it happened. 

He had been on top of the world, about to accomplish one of his greatest desires in over half a century. To finally put an end to Alastor’s smile (it didn’t matter if that damned deer died with it, so long as Alastor was no longer able to enjoy it for himself. To finally show something else on his face for once in his life). Velvette and Valentino betrayed him. It wasn’t… it wasn’t—

Vox almost killed them…

The error, the mistake he had been searching for in the footage and memories… it had been him all along. 

He almost killed them…

Business partners friends who had been at his side for years (who hadn’t abandoned him like that old prick…). Who he hadn’t seen this injured since Valentino almost died fighting against Alastor and suffering the price of a permanently damaged antennae; who he hadn't seen this disheveled since Velvette first fell into Hell with limbs strewn apart due to her crash landing. Who had been there for him for some of his best and worst days (although not all).

Vox almost killed the only people who gave a damn about him in this pathetic wasteland they called their home. 

Maybe… at one point… Vox could have proven Alastor wrong. That he, Velvette, and Valentino were…that. The perfect… group of people who liked one another with similar goals. Partners. Should have rubbed that in Alastor’s stupid, smug face when they had him under lock and key, should have realized that THAT was what Alastor was doing with every little comment he made while under Vox’s control. That every single doubt in Vox’s mind regarding Valentino and Velvette as they drew closer and closer to victory came from a singular source. 

Vox couldn’t tear his gaze away from their marred flesh in his mind. A chill began to crawl through him, like a writhing worm; stealing any warmth and leaving only a numbness behind that continued to splinter and grow on its own. His tongue felt like lead. The monitor that served as his face went dark.

…Vox ruined it all… hadn’t he? There was no going back from all that he did. In the end, all he was capable of doing was proving Alastor right…

Soon, the thunderous roars of the sinners outside faded into a muffled hum. The sound of whatever electricity was left to keep the lobby lit turned into silence. Everything dulled until all that was left was static, leaving him with only the reruns of his pathetic self in his memories and that damned deer’s laugh and lingering words, the smile never once fading. His own personal sitcom to which he would be unable to tear his eyes from for a long, long time.