Vox is flesh. Sure. But he is more cords, cables, and fiber optics in lieu of nerves, tendons, sinew... he just has to figure out where the plugs are.
There's a degree in which he knows the answer to that. After taking a huge blow of cocaine to maintain focus on this procedure, Vox takes a knife and slits his throat. He doesn't need it to breathe, not really - he can dig his claws into it, past flesh, pulling free cables. It hurts like a MOTHERFUCKER, but he can stay focused, he can stay quiet. Pulling out the cords, he's a little surprised and amused at how long they actually are... and how naturally they fit into the bottom of the new screen. One by one... slowly but surely...
AH.
Connected.
Switching output like second nature, Vox can see himself (fuck, he bled a lot more than he thought, his favorite sweater was definitely fucked) and if he leans over, he can even peer into the gaping hole in his neck. It should make him sick. It just feels like looking into a particularly wet computer.
With all delicate cords unplugged and moved to the new monitor, there was only one thing left - detatching his head from the fiber optic 'stem' that was woven in his spine. That's where the bone saw came in. Switching output again, steady his hand, take the bone saw... the flesh would regenerate. Hell, any cords he nicked probably would, too. So began the mind-numbingly painful process of sawing at vertebrae, disconnecting the stubborn bone.
It's not until he drops the saw and grabs the bottom of the box television that Alastor will catch what follows - it isn't until Vox lifts with a YANK his box head upwards that his pain finally escalated to a panicked instinctive--
STOP!
--of his survival instincts finally SCREAMING at him.
But Alastor would only track down that distress signal in time to see the box head falling backwards and away from the body, disconnected, crashing and exploding from the vacuum tubes rupturing on impact. Vox's body, bloodied and beheaded, slumped forward, all of its cables and cords except the spinal one connected to a fresh, out-of-the-box monitor.
no subject
There's a degree in which he knows the answer to that. After taking a huge blow of cocaine to maintain focus on this procedure, Vox takes a knife and slits his throat. He doesn't need it to breathe, not really - he can dig his claws into it, past flesh, pulling free cables. It hurts like a MOTHERFUCKER, but he can stay focused, he can stay quiet. Pulling out the cords, he's a little surprised and amused at how long they actually are... and how naturally they fit into the bottom of the new screen. One by one... slowly but surely...
AH.
Connected.
Switching output like second nature, Vox can see himself (fuck, he bled a lot more than he thought, his favorite sweater was definitely fucked) and if he leans over, he can even peer into the gaping hole in his neck. It should make him sick. It just feels like looking into a particularly wet computer.
With all delicate cords unplugged and moved to the new monitor, there was only one thing left - detatching his head from the fiber optic 'stem' that was woven in his spine. That's where the bone saw came in. Switching output again, steady his hand, take the bone saw... the flesh would regenerate. Hell, any cords he nicked probably would, too. So began the mind-numbingly painful process of sawing at vertebrae, disconnecting the stubborn bone.
It's not until he drops the saw and grabs the bottom of the box television that Alastor will catch what follows - it isn't until Vox lifts with a YANK his box head upwards that his pain finally escalated to a panicked instinctive--
STOP!
--of his survival instincts finally SCREAMING at him.
But Alastor would only track down that distress signal in time to see the box head falling backwards and away from the body, disconnected, crashing and exploding from the vacuum tubes rupturing on impact. Vox's body, bloodied and beheaded, slumped forward, all of its cables and cords except the spinal one connected to a fresh, out-of-the-box monitor.