And naturally, Vox followed. Oh, connecting was so, SO smooth now - not to Alastor, but to his sound system. He turned on the recording of some sixties jazz. Good decade, he thought. And crossing the room to his liquor cabinet, he plucked a glass out and poured a little whiskey.

Just one glass, which he passed to Alastor. Vox's throat was still in pieces, after all. The overlord gestured for Alastor to sit before he himself sunk into a chair, relaxing bonelessly into it.