It was a discontent that was always there. He thought he was pretty damn handsome when he was alive, after all - a pretty face and a winning smile that got him everything he wanted at any given moment. Replaced by a chunky block of technology, an object he used to hock to poor saps who didn't need to be wasting their savings on the newest television (with color!!). The same oversized tech that crushed his head like a grape.
Distractions help. To a degree. There is a balm in finding another fucking miserable sap that is half technology, like he is - though Alastor got to keep his pretty face, save for that radio-speaker yellow his teeth became. Ah well. It was something in Hell that felt natural to interface with, fucking finally. And from literally only one night, Vox realized how much their signals mingled and amplified each other, how powerful they could be together...
Distractions only go so far.
Each year that passes, his head feels heavier, tighter, full of pressure. Like it's a migraine. Alcohol, dancing, mingling signals, cocaine... just have to not think too hard about any of it...
There's little, subtle signs that Alastor probably caught on to... more dependence on alcohol. More stress, more drugs, more need for distractions - if he wasn't distracted, Vox would be staring into mirrors, scratching ugly marks into the box that was his head until he lost his temper and would break the mirrors. His signal was distressed and he hated looking at himself.
And then:
Flatscreens come out. They're sleek, they're sexy, they're lightweight - the very instant that they're brought to Hell, Vox can see himself in them. He doesn't remember his human face really at all - he could look it up, he 'recorded' a memory on tape before, but no-- no, these flatscreens... he needed one.
He needed to move on. He needed to get the fuck rid of this horrible head. He needed to flip his middle finger to whatever fucking joker in the universe thought it'd be funny to give him a CRT head. To replace that shit with a newer, better piece of technology, to claim it as his, to keep up with technology and become MORE.
Vox told his radio that he would be gone - an abject lie. It's fine.
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.
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.
Touch. Vox's claw reaches out and grabs what's touching him, sinking into flesh blindly - it's good that of anyone, it was Alastor that arrived because the electricity flowing from Vox would have utterly fried anyone else.
Thoughts were hard. No thinking. Just motions - the headless body grabbed and felt for the corners of the screen, sizing it up, unintentionally smearing blood all over it but the cords all naturally slid back into his body.
Something's touching his neck. That person. Wrapping him up, putting him together, even while he's electrically unstable. Vox holds his head in place while the bandaging is happening, while his cords settle, all until his whole body violently jerks.
The spine, the fiber, it reconnected - all of his false 'nerves' were flashing in his body, seizing it, until Vox sat completely upright and back in full control of himself.
Alastor bit the inside of his cheek as Vox's electricity arced through him. Even with his ability to absorb most of Vox's voltage, it still hurt. The agony his overlord was going through must have been indescribeable.
He kept wrapping, muttering nonsensical reassurances that all would be well when in reality he wanted to scream. What kept him from doing so was the unending mantra of "Vox needs me". Once Vox was well, then he could properly panic.
Blood got on Alastor as he had to periodically wipe his hands off when they became too slick to do any of the fine adjustments needed. As he finished wrapping Vox, the sudden violent jerk made Alastor jump. (Bodies sometimes did that after they died. It'd never failed to give Alastor a start.) He leaned in to ask Vox if he was all right when the question died at the feeling of that wide flat head coming up to smack him solidly in the nose. He stepped back, cupping his nose with his hands as blood gushed out of it.
It took a bit to get his body to obey, it felt - in reality it was only seconds, but soon, everything was reacting properly, muscles moving in response to signals from fiber. Vox stood, feeling -- fuck, feeling lighter. Tilting his head to either side... turning it around, panning the room... tilting back... the range of motion felt right. He could feel the fine motor skills in his hands, the balance returning in full to the rest of his body, a natural ability to shift his weight.
He did it.
He fucking upgraded himself. Everything fucking hurt, but Vox still threw his head back and laughed, his throat gurgling and gushing blood through the bandaging and his brain just-- lost, in the moment. In euphoria, despite his sensors still firing pain at him, he turned and punted the empty shell of his former head, cackling in utterly insane delight.
Alastor finished checking to see if his nose had been broken before staring at Vox cackling like a madman. When he saw the bandages turning red, something inside of him snapped.
Unaware that his eyes had turned to radio dials and his antlers were branching out, Alastor reached Vox in a few quick strides, grabbed his shoulder with one hand and the top of his stupid flat head with the other, and realigned them.
"Are you an idiot?! Your head's going to fall back off!"
Vox's hands raise and catch Alastor's head, too, his eyes peering into those radio dial eyes.
Stunning.
"Bₑaᵤₜᵢfᵤₗ," Vox warbled, the words clearly causing more bleeding - another little chuckle, and a little mute icon appeared in the corner of the new screen. No words until that regenerated, got it.
Alastor had no idea if it was just his imagination but the world seemed to dissolve into static as his ears flattened out.
"Did you even have a plan for how to attach your new head after you removed the old one and would be blind as a bat?!" he raged, unsoothed by the compliment. He paused. "Blink twice for 'yes' and three times for 'no'!"
...There was a lot going on in this moment. Vox's smile finally fell.
What... was the radio doing? The static felt wrong. This power coming from Alastor felt-- well. Like it was too strong, for a man that didn't have any deals. Vox's claws dropped from Alastor's head to his shoulders, gripping them... in wariness? In warning?
He doesn't blink, rather, his eye flashes - Vox can't provide a command, but he needs Alastor to calm the fuck down. Why is he mad?? Why isn't he celebrating??
Alastor locked eyes with the hypno eye. Without a command, it didn't really do anything more than his anger relaxing at the swirling colors.
The world returned to normal as his antlers shrank back down, eyes returning to normal.
Alastor blew out a breath, whisper-counting to himself "One, two, three, four..."
He kept going, body relaxing a bit more with each number. It was a trick a senior radio host had taught him at his old radio station back when he was alive.
He shut down those memories before he could get lost in his own head. At around fifty-two, he finally stopped.
"I'm sorry. You scared me. I felt your distress call and came as fast as I could only to find you headless and..." He shook his head. "Your bandages are bleeding. You're still injured."
Vox gave Alastor's shoulder a pat, but then waved dismissively - completely blowing off the concern and fear Alastor was expressing for him. He tugged at the turtleneck, visibly disappointed in losing it, but moved to pull it off over his newly attached head.
"Let me do it. If you're not careful, your head's going to fall off," Alastor said, frustration starting to mount again.
He tried mentally counting as he started pulling the sweater up over his shoulders. He carefully removed Vox's arms from the sleeves before pausing to study the new issue.
"I'm going to go slow for this part. I don't want to rip your head off."
The nausea churned away but he ignored it for the moment. Once Vox was done, then he could vomit.
It's definitely a lot harder to get around the sharp corners of the widescreen - especially as it pulls. More blood. Vox holds onto his neck, as if literally holding it together.
After this he needed. A drink. And to sleep off the regeneration.
The sweater might be salvageable. (Big might.) Alastor had gotten blood out of a lot of different fabrics while alive.
However, once it came off, it wasn't likely it was ever going back on again. Not unless the turtleneck was changed into something wider. Or it all became a button-up shirt.
"There."
Alastor folded the bloodied sweater and set it on a cleaner spot of the workbench. Then he calmly walked over to the trashcan, picked it up, and proceeded to lose the lousy catered lunch he'd had on set.
This isn't the energy he wanted after a successful transformation. He wanted to either fuck up and die, or clean himself up, hide until he healed for good, then make a dramatic reveal.
Instead here he was, stuck on mute, he'd gotten assistance but he'd mortified his best contractee. With a sigh (that sounded more wet than probably was healthy), Vox followed to where Alastor was and gave him a few pats on the back.
Alastor's heaving calmed after a few rounds. Then he put the trashcan down.
"I'm sorry. I just...You were completely headless. I know you wanted to have this grand reveal of your new head, and I ruined it for you."
He reached up, pausing as he automatically moved to place a hand on the side of Vox's head. However, there was a screen there now. He settled for resting Vox's lower part of the screen in one hand.
"You look lovely, my dear. The flatscreen suits you."
He was going to miss the old CRT, but if this was what made Vox happy, then Alastor would keep his thoughts to himself.
As if Vox couldn't tell Alastor was acting at him, right now. He gave a wry smile. His cameras were crystal clear, now... Alastor was really stunning. Lightly, Vox ran a (bloody) blue claw down Alastor's cheek. Those radio dials... the antlers... that'd been quite a sight.
Alastor was gonna forget his place, at this rate.
Words flashed as Vox "spoke" - subtitles instead of a voice.
Vox's hand withdrew from touching Alastor's face. He seems... incredulous. Confused.
Was Alastor lying to him? He was a stunning actor, but that ruse would've been elaborate - it made more sense if it was true. Why else would Alastor have been that furious with him?
...No. Even if it's sincere, he can't have Alastor realizing how powerful he's getting and getting bold enough to yell at him. That's-- that's a fast track to Alastor deciding he didn't want to deal with Vox anymore. To them fighting, and only one surviving that scramble.
The electric blue chain and collar appear, and Vox pulls it taut, pulling Alastor up against his chest. His claws grabbed at the small of Alastor's back, controlling exactly where Alastor stood and how.
It was a good thing his body could contort so easily in ways it really shouldn't. If it wasn't able to do that, the way he was being positioned would really hurt.
He didn't dare argue. It might not have been his intention to doubt his overlord, but fear was a form of doubt.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, ears flattening in fear.
Vox was very good to. Far more than he deserved, really.
But that also meant he knew the best ways to break Alastor if need be.
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Gruesome Upgrades
It was a discontent that was always there. He thought he was pretty damn handsome when he was alive, after all - a pretty face and a winning smile that got him everything he wanted at any given moment. Replaced by a chunky block of technology, an object he used to hock to poor saps who didn't need to be wasting their savings on the newest television (with color!!). The same oversized tech that crushed his head like a grape.
Distractions help. To a degree. There is a balm in finding another fucking miserable sap that is half technology, like he is - though Alastor got to keep his pretty face, save for that radio-speaker yellow his teeth became. Ah well. It was something in Hell that felt natural to interface with, fucking finally. And from literally only one night, Vox realized how much their signals mingled and amplified each other, how powerful they could be together...
Distractions only go so far.
Each year that passes, his head feels heavier, tighter, full of pressure. Like it's a migraine. Alcohol, dancing, mingling signals, cocaine... just have to not think too hard about any of it...
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And then:
Flatscreens come out. They're sleek, they're sexy, they're lightweight - the very instant that they're brought to Hell, Vox can see himself in them. He doesn't remember his human face really at all - he could look it up, he 'recorded' a memory on tape before, but no-- no, these flatscreens... he needed one.
He needed to move on. He needed to get the fuck rid of this horrible head. He needed to flip his middle finger to whatever fucking joker in the universe thought it'd be funny to give him a CRT head. To replace that shit with a newer, better piece of technology, to claim it as his, to keep up with technology and become MORE.
Vox told his radio that he would be gone - an abject lie. It's fine.
He just has to figure out how to connect things.
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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.
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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.
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Thoughts were hard. No thinking. Just motions - the headless body grabbed and felt for the corners of the screen, sizing it up, unintentionally smearing blood all over it but the cords all naturally slid back into his body.
Something's touching his neck. That person. Wrapping him up, putting him together, even while he's electrically unstable. Vox holds his head in place while the bandaging is happening, while his cords settle, all until his whole body violently jerks.
The spine, the fiber, it reconnected - all of his false 'nerves' were flashing in his body, seizing it, until Vox sat completely upright and back in full control of himself.
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He kept wrapping, muttering nonsensical reassurances that all would be well when in reality he wanted to scream. What kept him from doing so was the unending mantra of "Vox needs me". Once Vox was well, then he could properly panic.
Blood got on Alastor as he had to periodically wipe his hands off when they became too slick to do any of the fine adjustments needed. As he finished wrapping Vox, the sudden violent jerk made Alastor jump. (Bodies sometimes did that after they died. It'd never failed to give Alastor a start.) He leaned in to ask Vox if he was all right when the question died at the feeling of that wide flat head coming up to smack him solidly in the nose. He stepped back, cupping his nose with his hands as blood gushed out of it.
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He did it.
He fucking upgraded himself. Everything fucking hurt, but Vox still threw his head back and laughed, his throat gurgling and gushing blood through the bandaging and his brain just-- lost, in the moment. In euphoria, despite his sensors still firing pain at him, he turned and punted the empty shell of his former head, cackling in utterly insane delight.
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Unaware that his eyes had turned to radio dials and his antlers were branching out, Alastor reached Vox in a few quick strides, grabbed his shoulder with one hand and the top of his stupid flat head with the other, and realigned them.
"Are you an idiot?! Your head's going to fall back off!"
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Vox's hands raise and catch Alastor's head, too, his eyes peering into those radio dial eyes.
Stunning.
"Bₑaᵤₜᵢfᵤₗ," Vox warbled, the words clearly causing more bleeding - another little chuckle, and a little mute icon appeared in the corner of the new screen. No words until that regenerated, got it.
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"Did you even have a plan for how to attach your new head after you removed the old one and would be blind as a bat?!" he raged, unsoothed by the compliment. He paused. "Blink twice for 'yes' and three times for 'no'!"
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What... was the radio doing? The static felt wrong. This power coming from Alastor felt-- well. Like it was too strong, for a man that didn't have any deals. Vox's claws dropped from Alastor's head to his shoulders, gripping them... in wariness? In warning?
He doesn't blink, rather, his eye flashes - Vox can't provide a command, but he needs Alastor to calm the fuck down. Why is he mad?? Why isn't he celebrating??
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The world returned to normal as his antlers shrank back down, eyes returning to normal.
Alastor blew out a breath, whisper-counting to himself "One, two, three, four..."
He kept going, body relaxing a bit more with each number. It was a trick a senior radio host had taught him at his old radio station back when he was alive.
He shut down those memories before he could get lost in his own head. At around fifty-two, he finally stopped.
"I'm sorry. You scared me. I felt your distress call and came as fast as I could only to find you headless and..." He shook his head. "Your bandages are bleeding. You're still injured."
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He tried mentally counting as he started pulling the sweater up over his shoulders. He carefully removed Vox's arms from the sleeves before pausing to study the new issue.
"I'm going to go slow for this part. I don't want to rip your head off."
The nausea churned away but he ignored it for the moment. Once Vox was done, then he could vomit.
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After this he needed. A drink. And to sleep off the regeneration.
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The sweater might be salvageable. (Big might.) Alastor had gotten blood out of a lot of different fabrics while alive.
However, once it came off, it wasn't likely it was ever going back on again. Not unless the turtleneck was changed into something wider. Or it all became a button-up shirt.
"There."
Alastor folded the bloodied sweater and set it on a cleaner spot of the workbench. Then he calmly walked over to the trashcan, picked it up, and proceeded to lose the lousy catered lunch he'd had on set.
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Instead here he was, stuck on mute, he'd gotten assistance but he'd mortified his best contractee. With a sigh (that sounded more wet than probably was healthy), Vox followed to where Alastor was and gave him a few pats on the back.
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"I'm sorry. I just...You were completely headless. I know you wanted to have this grand reveal of your new head, and I ruined it for you."
He reached up, pausing as he automatically moved to place a hand on the side of Vox's head. However, there was a screen there now. He settled for resting Vox's lower part of the screen in one hand.
"You look lovely, my dear. The flatscreen suits you."
He was going to miss the old CRT, but if this was what made Vox happy, then Alastor would keep his thoughts to himself.
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Alastor was gonna forget his place, at this rate.
Words flashed as Vox "spoke" - subtitles instead of a voice.
You're looking at the future.
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He smiled softly at Vox, expression more genuine.
"The future's certainly bright," he quipped.
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I thought you were a serial killer in life?
Thought you'd be used to a dismembered body or two.
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1/2
Was Alastor lying to him? He was a stunning actor, but that ruse would've been elaborate - it made more sense if it was true. Why else would Alastor have been that furious with him?
...
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The electric blue chain and collar appear, and Vox pulls it taut, pulling Alastor up against his chest. His claws grabbed at the small of Alastor's back, controlling exactly where Alastor stood and how.
You DOUBTED me.
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He didn't dare argue. It might not have been his intention to doubt his overlord, but fear was a form of doubt.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, ears flattening in fear.
Vox was very good to. Far more than he deserved, really.
But that also meant he knew the best ways to break Alastor if need be.
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