In an odd sort of way, Alastor and Vox had that in common: Alastor really could've done without his own face. The first few years in Hell, he'd periodically claw it up if not completely tear it off only to have it heal perfectly within hours. While his still mostly human appearance was considered a hot commodity, he despised having to look at the face of who he'd once been for all eternity.
So he didn't judge when Vox drank a bit more than he probably should or took a few questionable substances. First of all, it wasn't his place to judge. Second, how could he judge Vox when those were his same coping mechanisms? Particularly when he'd catch Vox looking at those shiny new flatscreens with such open envy that he could practically hear what Vox wishing for one.
Personally, he thought the old CRT was charming, but he really didn't have anything he could say about it: After all, he wasn't the one lugging it around.
Alastor had dropped what he was doing, completely ruining a take as Vox's distress call hit his internal receivers. He ignored the director as he started moving quickly off-set.
"The hell do you think you're -- "
"Vox needs me," Alastor said, somehow sounding calm as every cell, every circuit in his body screeched in panic.
Nobody stopped him after that. He was Vox's contractee like many of them. If the overlord holding your chain beckons, you must obey or suffer the consequences. If Alastor leaving set would delay the project, him getting laid up after a severe punishment for not doing so would delay the project even longer.
He honestly couldn't remember how he reached Vox so quickly. It should've taken much longer than it had even at a full run, but it'd taken only moments to arrive. He didn't dwell on it.
He couldn't as that familiar boxy head fell from Vox's shoulders and smashed on the floor, completely unrepairable.
Alastor froze in mute horror. He'd butchered many people, but not once had he felt the urge to vomit at the sight. Right now, his stomach churned with the threat to empty its contents all over Vox's floor.
'Fix him!' every instinct shrieked.
He rushed over, hunting around for bandages. The old CRT was a lost cause, but the new flatscreen could work if Vox's body was given time to mesh his new head with his spinal column. He could've sworn that he'd already looked in that spot and hadn't found anything, but he didn't bother to think too hard on it.
"You're going to be all right," he murmured, more to calm himself than to calm Vox. (Could Vox even hear him like this?! Don't think about it!) "I'm going to align the new screen with your neck and bandage it."
It was almost sickening to have to start wrapping Vox's neck, having to ensure that he had the spinal column lined up just right. Having a flatscreen wouldn't be any more comfortable than the CRT must have been if it was off-kilter.
no subject
So he didn't judge when Vox drank a bit more than he probably should or took a few questionable substances. First of all, it wasn't his place to judge. Second, how could he judge Vox when those were his same coping mechanisms? Particularly when he'd catch Vox looking at those shiny new flatscreens with such open envy that he could practically hear what Vox wishing for one.
Personally, he thought the old CRT was charming, but he really didn't have anything he could say about it: After all, he wasn't the one lugging it around.
Alastor had dropped what he was doing, completely ruining a take as Vox's distress call hit his internal receivers. He ignored the director as he started moving quickly off-set.
"The hell do you think you're -- "
"Vox needs me," Alastor said, somehow sounding calm as every cell, every circuit in his body screeched in panic.
Nobody stopped him after that. He was Vox's contractee like many of them. If the overlord holding your chain beckons, you must obey or suffer the consequences. If Alastor leaving set would delay the project, him getting laid up after a severe punishment for not doing so would delay the project even longer.
He honestly couldn't remember how he reached Vox so quickly. It should've taken much longer than it had even at a full run, but it'd taken only moments to arrive. He didn't dwell on it.
He couldn't as that familiar boxy head fell from Vox's shoulders and smashed on the floor, completely unrepairable.
Alastor froze in mute horror. He'd butchered many people, but not once had he felt the urge to vomit at the sight. Right now, his stomach churned with the threat to empty its contents all over Vox's floor.
'Fix him!' every instinct shrieked.
He rushed over, hunting around for bandages. The old CRT was a lost cause, but the new flatscreen could work if Vox's body was given time to mesh his new head with his spinal column. He could've sworn that he'd already looked in that spot and hadn't found anything, but he didn't bother to think too hard on it.
"You're going to be all right," he murmured, more to calm himself than to calm Vox. (Could Vox even hear him like this?! Don't think about it!) "I'm going to align the new screen with your neck and bandage it."
It was almost sickening to have to start wrapping Vox's neck, having to ensure that he had the spinal column lined up just right. Having a flatscreen wouldn't be any more comfortable than the CRT must have been if it was off-kilter.