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labyrinthofsphinx · 19 days

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Statistical Outliers

Part 4 and 4.5 of drabble. Couldn't really figure out how I should chop it up so, extra long one this time. Still working on something else in the meantime.

“Voxtek is proud to present the newest innovation in headset technology. Gone are the days when the screams of the damned or your annoying mother-in-law ruin your gaming experience! The sound cancellation on them is guaranteed to see you through even the noisiest situation!”

As if to accent the point, Vox, while wearing them, stood in front of comically large speakers. The sound cut out just as the speakers activated, the force of the sound enough to send his employees flying. Vox, himself, couldn’t hear anything. A quick press of a button to the side activated a secondary feature, sound filtering.

“And if that wasn’t enough, they can also filter out any sound you want, save for your voice. Again, perfect for the unfortunates still stuck in their mother’s basement! Not only are they connectable to any and all of your Voxtek devices, but the wireless communications can hook up straight to your speaker function. You can take your call and enjoy walking through a scream park without a problem! The perfect gift for a busybody like myself!”

On cue, Velvette slid into frame, sporting a brand new, very modernized outfit. On top her head was the special one she requested, the one with ears. The lights dimmed ever so slightly, and Velvette’s outfit jumped to life, including glowing eye shadow and, of course, the frames of the ears. Again, not sure why it was such a necessity but he’s rolling with it.

“And right now, we’ve got a specialty line of them, working in collaboration with Velvette Designs! You might’ve seen them on the web lately! These items are limited release, so get them while their hot!”

Then, of course, the finale.

“Here at Voxtek, we strive for innovation! So Trust Us and take a look at our newest product!”

Before the commercial even finished, the limited release items sold which, at least informed Vox, that Velvette had once again been right. Apparently, people were fighting each other tooth and nail outside of stores for a set. Muggings and an odd black market popped up almost immediately. And that also meant the knock offs were starting up too, things that only ever made his products look even better by comparison. People wanted these things so badly that they were willing to risk getting ripped off. And these were people that hadn’t been hypnotized. Odd.

He might’ve felt compelled to thank her, but the kid was reward enough. Speaking of…

He watched him sitting there in her studio like a glorified trophy. Velvette was working on some designs that Val came up with for his models, things that looked trashy and were made even trashier. Naturally, that just wouldn’t do for their brand. While Vox didn’t usually care about this sort of thing, especially since none of Val’s workers ever wear clothes long enough for it to ever be noticeable, he will admit that it looked better on the poster if Angel wasn’t wearing cheap stockings and fake leather.

Anyways, the rest of the studio was treating the kid like a set piece, something to look at, coo at even, and then quickly return to work. He wasn’t speaking, but he was sunken into the couch like a boy dragged out to go shopping. Just sit, smile, and pretend everything everyone puts on looks lovely. Velvette had him in an oversized sweater which only made him look even punier. Looked good in pictures though, he noted as he scrolled through her recent posts.

He waved the footage away. He had other matters to attend to.

Like, for example, filming that segment about the horrors and potential health hazards of a specific frequency of radiowaves.

…

Just a few more hours. Then, he’d turn in for the night. Just had to go over the stock list again, product numbers, sales, and finally the new pitches his lesser technicians came up with. Only a few more things to do…

His sharks started to swim agitatedly, circling more, and then disappearing from his peripheral. Oh, great. He had a guest. Three guesses who.

“Val, I don’t have time for this right now! I’ve got-”

The smell of coffee caught him off guard. Val didn’t bring him coffee. He brought coffee to Val sometimes, but the only person who brought him coffee he threw off the building the other day. He didn’t expect him back to work so quickly either. Huh. Employee loyalty was a heck of a drug.

“Ah, great timing, and here I thought I’d have to go grab one myself-”

When he spun the chair around, he was greeted to the kid. He had a tray in his hand. Sitting atop it was a coffee, apparently handmade, and a muffin, chocolate chip from the looks of it.

“What’s this?”

The kid opened his mouth, then promptly shut it without uttering a peep. Vox rolled his eyes.

“You can answer when I ask you a question. What is this?”

“Black coffee, only a sip of cream. And a chocolate chip muffin.”

He peered at them, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not fucking blind. I know what they are but what,” He gestured. “is all this?”

“You…you’ve been in here all day.” His ears folded behind him, granting him an odd insight into just torn up he seemed to be. “I notice you haven’t eaten anything for hours…and I thought, well, you know.”

“…where’d you get the coffee?”

“The coffee bar.”

“How’d you know what I liked?”

His ears perked up almost immediately, and a thin smile crept up on him.

“So I was right?”

Well that remains to be seen. He snatched up the cup, the need for caffeine just overriding caution. Sure, it might be poisoned, but the deadliest kind around here was Val’s kind, and Vox regularly makes out with the man. If it was going to kill him, it should’ve done so already. Now, that didn’t mean he didn’t do a secondary analysis, testing the coffee as he chugged it down. The results came quick, almost as quickly as the warm liquid hitting his stomach.

It was…coffee. Black, with just a sip of cream. Actually, this was better than the ones his assistant made for him on the regular. That’s…not what he expected.

How exactly had the kid figured out his order?

Not that he’d admit that he liked it, of course.

He made a sour face, looking at it like it had been poison.

“Disgusting.” He tossed his hand up before the kid made a move to take it back though. “But better than nothing I guess.”

He snatched up the muffin this time and took a bite. Okay, it was actually good. Warm still, the chocolate was melted slightly into the muffin. Their kitchenette wasn’t fully stocked, so he had to assume the kid used the ingredients from his cooking kitchen. A quick double check at least told him that the kid cleaned up after himself so…not so bad. Certain things were out of place and would need fixing before his next kitchen segment, but it wasn’t a bad price to pay, sort to speak.

“God, kid. Where’d you learn to bake? You should get your money back.” He snarked.

But, as he chanced a glance, the kid’s delicate smile grew slightly. His ears weren’t pulled back anymore. In fact, they flicked up with excitement. It was annoying.

“What?”

The kid’s attention flickered between the coffee cup and the remains of the muffin. There was pride drawing on his cheeks, almost turning them flush. He had to pull back the urge to shock some sense back into him.

“Well, why don’t you run along now? You’ve handed over your revolting-”

“But you’re eating them.”

He blinked. Did this kid just interrupt him? Him?

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” He quickly added. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look sorry. In fact, he looked almost gleeful. Had he been among friends, Vox imagines he’d be bouncing off the walls. Even his tail was wagging like a dog.

And there was only so much disrespect Vox could take in one turn. Especially to his face. And despite the coffee and snack.

“Get. Out.” He sneered through his teeth.

That wiped the smile off the kid’s face. His ears tugged down again, and his tail pulled at the bottom of his legs. His eyes drooped as he nodded, bowing out. His head lifted only for a moment, peering at the aquarium. Vox couldn’t see it directly, but the mirrored image of him in the glass seemed to wag a friendly finger towards his man-eating friends. He didn’t stop walking though. The door hissed shut as he left, giving Vox back his space.

The coffee was warm on his hands. The warmth seeped into the very soles of his shoes as he took another sip. You’d think he’d be used to the cold now, since he often kept this room colder than others to save his monitor’s the extra workload of having to cool. But heat was something he craved, just like moths crave the moon.

He bit into the muffin again. When was the last time he had a chocolate muffin? He can’t remember. He should look back into the security footage, steal the recipe for his next dessert special. At the very least, he needed to write it down so that when his assistant does finally reform, he can have it whenever he wants.

Work called back to him again, even as he polished off the muffin. The coffee made the extra time bearable, as usual. Not great, but better.

The news was the usual assortment of dramas. Another turf war has broken out, pitting southeastern kingpins against each other in a violent exchange that encircled the block. Fifty eight dead so far, but who counts death that aren’t permanent anyways? His new headsets were doing wonderfully, and the fakes were proving themselves to be both a disappointment and, as Velvette keeps tabs on such things, akin to social suicide. It was Voxtek or nothing.

And not to worry, they should have new shipments coming soon! It’ll only cost an arm, a leg, or a soul.

The bitterness of the coffee held back the sweetness leftover from the snack.

Alastor was asking around now, about the kid. He caught him disappearing to the cannibal part of town, old stomping grounds to him. There were less cameras there, but he didn’t need them to know that he’d be visiting his old gal pal. Rosy, for all else that she was, knew a lot of gossip. Gossip that, ironically, really wouldn’t help here. Alastor should know that. The kid wasn’t even close to there when Vox’s men picked him up. Was he dragging his feet? He seemed less enthusiastic about the kid’s safety than Vox would’ve expected. They had seemed close. Well, as close as any of those deadbeats seemed to be. Alastor wasn’t the type to purposefully turn his back on a friend…or potential ally. Then, he considered how similarly he was treated once upon a time. Close enough to seem close, but never enough to truly care. For a moment, he wished the coffee was more bitter.

Finally, after a few hours slipped into a few too many, Vox was done with today. The rest had to wait for tomorrow. What was the point of being an Overlord if he couldn’t draw the line where he wanted? Oh, wait, no. That project needs to be reviewed and-

He caught an odd alert. Someone was looking something up on his T.V., something not in the library.

Sitting there on the couch, the newest waste of time sighed to himself as his search yielded no results. Vox tapped into the camera just in time to hear him complain.

“Oh, come on! He has to have it here somewhere. It was his show.”

A show of his? He brought up the search.

Well…it was one of his, one of his first ones. Back when he was still fresh off the hooves of the mortal realm fads. It was a sitcom of sorts, featuring characters dealing with life in a POW camp during the war. It was so old; it was still filmed in black and white. Half the actors in it had died to exterminations. One had drained his career down the bottle and drugs. Another had faded into obscurity when he refused to sign on for a different project, an insult Vox treated kinder back then.

It had been fun though, at the time. One of his first big breakout shows. People ate it up. Until times changed and tastes changed and no one wanted to hear about that war anymore. Vox got with the program. He wasn’t about to let an opportunity slip.

Unfortunately, that was the end of his first experiment. He gave it one last episode, ending like any other, before moving to the next thing. It’s too bad too. He’d been hoping the end of that show would showcase the actual end of the war, but…well…as he said, times had changed.

So, what was the kid doing looking it up? He hadn’t the slightest clue.

The kid kept digging, trying to find it on his streaming, his internet, even digging through the cabinet looking for DVDs. He wasn’t going to find anything. Once everything went to digital, that was the end of the DVDs.

He had half a mind to call Velvette up and tell her to watch her pets. In fact, he was going to but…his fingers curled around the warm mug.

Ugh, fine. Whatever.

A ping noise popped over the T.V., making the kid jump to attention. Look at that! All eight seasons of the show just got downloaded onto the platform! Aren’t you lucky?

He’d not seen so much joy in someone down here in a long time. Like, childhood giddiness. He was smiling like it was Christmas and the first present he opened was the one he wanted all along. It was odd, to say the least.

“Yes!” The giddiness spread to his legs now, and he could barely keep from leaping off the couch as he turned it on.

The intro song played. It was a chipper tune, playing along the lines of the old marching songs but lighter toned for general audience viewing. The kid knew every beat of it, and he twitched his head to the drum. Personally, it’d always been an earworm for him. That’s one of the reasons he went with it. Anything that could stay inside your head all day was something you’d give another watch later.

But, again, it’s been a while since any of this aired. It made sense that he’d still remember the beat. He invented it. The kid had no reason to know it, not this well. Maybe he heard about the show from some old sinner lurking about, that he could kinda understand even if he didn’t get the fascination with it. But knowing the song?

The more he watched, the more he realized that the kid wasn’t just excited to see the show, he was a fan of it. He knew the characters, knew the catchphrases, knew the twists. Hell, he seemed to know most of the episodes in general, from guest stars to side plots.

By the time he’d finished with work, the series was up to its last season. It’s this one the kid fell asleep watching. Vox wasn’t even sure the kid ate anything this whole time. Vel and Val were still out partying or whatever at this ungodly hour of the night. Given how he hasn’t moved at all, he can only imagine that Velvette abandoned her little toy or, worse, expected Vox to make sure he was still alive by the end of the day.

Speaking of food, he’d need some himself. The coffee was gone hours ago, and the muffin felt like a lifetime away to his stomach. He could make himself something. Hey, those cooking shows weren’t just an act. But that would require so much more work than he felt capable of right now.

He dragged himself away from his monitor room, his pet sharks darting about for one last look at their owner before the doors slammed shut again.

Was the meatloaf he made the other day still there? Probably not. Anytime Val smokes too much, he devours any leftovers that managed to make it the day. The bar had some snacks stocked in it, some for Velvette and some for bar prep, namely lemons, limes, and small accompaniments. At this point, he’d eat a whole fucking tree of lemons if he had to.

When he got to the longue, episode eighteen of the last season was playing. He remembers filming that one, where the POWs snuck out dressed in drag to pretend to be army nurses for the other side. At the time, even in hell, the drag caught people off guard, mostly because Vox made sure it damn well looked convincing. He snickered to himself as the lieutenant asked if the outfit complemented his figure. That was an adlib. The actor actually asked to keep the costume afterwards. Vox obliged.

Okay, now, bar.

He found some of the spread snacks lying about: crackers, chips, and different cheeses. He also found the whiskey, which he needed after a day like today. He grabbed them all and sat at the coffee table, just as the characters flirted past the guards to get to the secret plans hidden in the hospital. Ordinarily, they try not to eat here, on account of the expensive furniture and because Vox himself has made a habit of standing on the furniture when he got too excited. But with both of them gone, he didn’t care.

As for the kid, well, he was too small to take up much space on the couch as it was. That, and he was curling up as much as possible, so he hardly took over much more than elbow space. He sat down beside him, eyes unfocused and starting to drift.

In the world’s worst excuse for a sandwich, he smushed a piece of cheese, the kind didn’t matter, between two crackers. He downed about twenty of them before he reached for his whiskey. Yeah, there definitely wasn’t enough of that for tonight. He finished the bottle way too fast. Great. Well, better get back to the crackers. Otherwise he was gonna have a massive migraine later. And that just wouldn’t do with the morning news!

God, he needed another drink-

“Do they get out, in the end?”

He almost spit the crackers and cheese out like a rocket. Thankfully he didn’t. Velvette would throw a fit if she sat down and ruined an outfit on spit out, half chewed crackers.

“Where you just sitting here the whole time awake-?”

“Because the last episode doesn’t say if they got out.” As the kid pouted and, before he could even come up with an intelligent response, noticed the empty bottle and snack food. “…is that your dinner?”

If he wasn’t so tired and, admittedly a little tipsy, he might’ve snapped at the kid for talking over him, then not even giving him the second to think. As it was, the alcohol, the sleep deprivation, and growling of his stomach was making his mind a little too fuzzy to answer like he normally would.

“I dunno, kid. Didn’t think too much on it.”

“…regarding the show or dinner?”

He blinked slowly. It didn’t make the world stop spinning.

“Both. I think both.”

The kid went silent for a moment, just enough time for him to sit up a little bit more. Geez, was he always that small? Was it just his stupidly big ears that made him look bigger?

“I can only make muffins.” The kid announced randomly.

He swears his processors were lying to him. He did not just say that.

“…What?”

“Lucifer taught me how to make muffins, but I haven’t figured out pancakes yet. Do you want PB and J?”

“The fuck are you on about, kid?”

“Everybody says hangovers suck, and that it’s worse if you don’t eat anything. You want crust or no crust?”

The alcohol was swimming in his brain too much. The kid had a point. He’s drunk too much and ate too little. What would the viewers say tomorrow if Vox, the Vox, looked like he drank himself stupid the day before? Logically, his numbers automatically fed back to him, he should eat something.

But his mouth wasn’t running by his logistics, unfortunately.

“What do you mean, ‘everybody says’? What, you’ve never been hungover?”

The kid’s face pursed like he ate a lemon, or a girl with kooties tried to kiss him. Revolt, the kind that only kids had for stupid things like love, baths, and vegetables, tugged on his face.

“I make it a point not to drink anything I could run a car on.”

A deep throated laugh burst from him. He’s not even sure where it came from. It kinda just puked right out his mouth and filled the room.

“That was funny.” He managed between filling his lungs. “Where you always funny, or am I way too drunk?”

He doesn’t think he should’ve said that last part out loud now that he thinks about it. Thankfully the kid didn’t answer the stupid question with a stupid answer. Instead, a small grin peeked under his muzzle.

“So, PB and J?”

He put the bottle down, the empty clang of it echoing in the room. He forgot how quiet it was when everyone else was gone. He was so used to this being their space, their collective space, that any time spent alone felt…odd. The kid wasn’t much. Even drunk off his ass, he couldn’t really compare to having one of the other Vees here.

But, you know, he was funny. A bit.

And he offered peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Even the other Vees never offered as much when he was drunk, not that he remembers anyways.

“Yeah, kid. Go make me a fucking sandwich.”

“Okay, but don’t watch the last episode without me!” He leapt up and over towards the cooking set. Again, he needed to chase his staff over and clean that up later, for tomorrow’s lesson. He was going to go over a filet mignon with red wine reduction sauce. That was the plan. Now, for some reason, he was wondering if he was better off showing how to make muffins.

The intro song played again. It was the last episode of the series. Nothing special, he didn’t get to have the grand finale he’d once envisioned. It was still as good as any other episode though. And no, he didn’t feel like waiting either.

The kid came back with the sandwiches about a fourth of the way through. He had removed the crust and sliced it down the middle to make two even triangles. It was a fucking lunch his mother could’ve packed him for school. He was eating school lunch. He didn’t feel drunk enough to be eating school lunch, though he was just hungry enough to cave.

It was good, obviously. Hard to mess up PB and J, especially with his own ingredients.

“I told you not to watch without me.”

The kid huffed as he bit into a different sandwich, also peanut butter and jelly.

“Did I ever say I agreed to that?” He mentioned back.

“…you’re kinda a jerk.”

Of all the insults he’s taken: the curses, the lengthy speeches, the loudmouth screeching of a certain radio, he’s not sure he’s ever been called a ‘jerk’. It was so wildly immature, but not in the ‘I’m spouting whatever curse comes to mind’ kind of way. But, probably because he was drunk and because it wasn’t the usual cursing white noise it hit harder than expected. Like, he laughed, but there was a bitter edge to it.

“A ‘jerk’? Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” His toothy grin might remind one of a shark, though it probably looked less intimidating with peanut butter all over his teeth.

The kid shrugged.

“I don’t know. Just seemed to be the word that fit best, I guess.”

Somehow, that was even more insulting.

“…shut up.”

He did as he was told, staying quiet for a good couple of minutes, but Vox didn’t really talk much either. He usually loved talking in the middle of movies or shows, partly to annoy but partly to entertain when the watchability wasn’t there.

“Do you still have the sets from the show? I know sometimes people in Hollywood would reuse sets.” The kid asked, interrupting the silence. And giving Vox plenty to talk about.

“From this show? Nah. We used some of it for other programs at the time, but a lot of it was scrapped when we branched out into Sci-fi shows. The space race was a hell of a time for TV.” Notably, the kid seemed genuinely upset to hear that, though something about the sag of his shoulders told Vox that he expected that answer.

And, okay, he was still drunk and not thinking right.

“I’ve got the captain’s hat in my closet.”

The kid’s jaw snapped open.

“Really?”

Wow, he just wore his emotions on his sleeve, huh?

“Yeah, it’s got all the pins on it still too.” Why had he kept it? Even he didn’t really know the answer. There’s been a few times where he’d thought about throwing it away, like the rest of the old, outdated junk but…well, then there were moments like these. When drunk, he liked thinking about those stupid passion projects. It was better than focusing on more recent events, usually.

“That’s so cool!”

Well, that might be going a step too far.

“It’s just an old hat, kid.”

“From a classic show!” He argued. “It just sucks that Hell doesn’t have museums or something.”

His show as a dusted up old display in a museum? Even drunk, that sounded suspiciously like an insult.

“That’s because Hell is the museum, kid.” He flashed his teeth again. “Too many old bastards long past their time hanging around and dragging their fucking heels. It’s all a museum and a fucking zoo down here.”

To that, the kid didn’t seem to have an argument. He gave up a little sigh.

“You’d think people with knowledge from, like, thousands of years ago would be really cool.”

“Fossils.” Vox, now hitting a little too close to his chest, stopped smiling. “Just a bunch of fucking fossils who are pissed off that the world didn’t fucking stop turning when they died. Bunch of narcissistic assholes who think everything should revolve around them.”

The kid stopped mid-bite and just looked at him. After a moment, it started being pretty funny.

“Hey, the world actually does revolve around me!” He stated. The kid raised a brow and gave a slow blink of his eyes. “It’s true! If it wasn’t for me, nothing would’ve ever changed down here. Trust me, before I got to Hell, you would’ve thought we were in the dark ages.”

The episode’s outro played, a reprised version of the intro song. As the last episode though, it seemed a little slower pitched than he remembered, as if it wanted to go on just a little bit longer. It was an absurd thought, especially since all episodes fitted nicely into the exact TV slot allotted to them, with commercials. None of them were any longer than others. But this? It seemed longer. Did he do that on purpose? He doesn’t remember doing that on purpose.

He snatched the remote before the kid could. His eyes were dipping a bit from the need for sleep, and the cocktail of PB and J and whiskey settling in his stomach. So, rather than take a chance on the remote, he flicked the signal between his fingers, telling the TV to put on a game show. Guess he still had old crap on the brain because the one that popped up was one of the ancient, prerecorded ones. That was back when TV was on more of a schedule, meaning that at some point in the night the broadcasts would stop.

It was a non-creative project, something he’d ripped off from a show he’d used to watch, except instead of trying to figure out someone’s job, you’d typically be figuring out how they died. Vox had found some pretty amusing ones over the years. One of his favorites was the guy who’d been reporting the weather and died when a fish leapt out of the water and smacked him in the face. Poor bastard wasn’t even sure if it was the impact of the fish that killed him or if it was falling off the dock and getting run over by a boat.

Some of the best ones resulted in sinners that looked really fucking weird, because, apparently, part of being in hell was remembering, forever, how and what killed you. He remembered a guy that looked like his face was squashed by an old cartoony hammer because he’d actually died to a piano being dropped on his head.

Vox, of course, had been the host. Some other demons filled in the guessers’ positions, people who’ve long faded into the background of his mind. In this one, a demon resembling a polar bear wrote his name down and sat beside Vox as the questioning began.

“He got sliced by a hockey skate, didn’t he?”

Okay, color Vox surprised.

“How’d you figure that?”

“’Cause his fur looks like a hockey jersey and he keeps trying to hide his neck.”

Huh. He supposed that was true. Maybe he’d seen the episode before though. Maybe he was just lying. Well, there was one quick way to test it.

“Not bad. Alright, here’s a tougher one. How did I die?” He challenged. He better not say he got crushed by a TV. He’s heard that one way too many times, and he was sick and tried of people assuming he got knocked off like a looney tunes character-

“My guess would be a power surge.”

“…huh?”

“Well, I mean, you don’t look like you’ve got any scars on you, but you’re a kind of dark blue everywhere. And you short circuit the city when you get mad. So, my guess would be you got electrocuted or something.”

That was a first. Obviously, his death was a little more graphic and detailed than some random electrocution. Here, come watch the death of your favorite TV star! Live for one night only. Or alive for one last night only. And there were still people out there that thought the chair was merciful. Merciful, my ass. That shit had hurt.

“Couldn’t be further from the truth, kid. You really suck at this.” He teased. “But since we’re on the subject…”

There honestly wasn’t much to go on for the kid. He was used to having these answers behind an info card, rather than having to guess himself. Sure, constant practice showed some consistent things. He’s not sure how the fox part of his appearance played into things, but he could spot the pattern of his ears and arms well enough. The slight glint of his freckles reminded him more of taillights than of actual freckles. Also, he was a kid. What was the most obvious thought there?

“What? You go chasing after your ball and get hit by a car?”

The kid suddenly found interest in his feet, kicking them around like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Oh, he could picture it now. A stupid little kid on his way to school, playing in the street when all of a sudden-

“I got run over by an eighteen-wheeler.”

A What?

“Come again?”

“I was driving my car, took my eyes off the road for a second. An eighteen-wheeler had come barreling down the road going the wrong way.”

What the fuck?

“Like, run over though? Not just crashed into the car?”

He nodded.

“I think that’s why I’ve got treads on my arms, legs, and ears. If you get my meaning.”

Holy shit. Like karma was a bitch and, yeah, obviously the kid was down here for…something but-

“Was it quick at least?”

The kid bit his lip, and his body curled closer to him.

“I…I just remember the headlights.”

He was lying. Vox knew that. Oh, fuck, that’s a hard way to go. Plus, he’s a kid. He felt like his brain was running too many programs at once, never a smart thing to do while intoxicated.

“How old are you?”

“Um…twelve, I think. Maybe thirteen. I…I don’t really remember. Time’s so weird down here.”

Twelve? They threw a twelve year old down here with the likes of serial killers, sex offenders, and power hungry dictators? What the fuck did he do? Did he accidently bring a super psycho into the Vee tower?

“Where you murdering other children behind the school cafeteria or something? How does a twelve year old get into hell? You’re not even alive long enough to do anything. Or big enough. Or have a functioning brain.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“No, we are clearing this up right fucking now. Why are you down here?”

He was not going to let this go. The last thing he needed was for a deranged little twerp like Alastor’s girl running around stabbing things. Sure, he hasn’t shown any of that yet and he did check into that loser’s hotel but he’s learned better than to trust that. If the kid wasn’t going to spill, he’d just make him, with a quick suggestion of course.

“I…I mean.” The kid shuddered, and he seemed to gulp down air. “I-I went for a drive. It was dark, and it was raining. I-I honestly d-didn’t mean to hit him! He just walked out from the woods somewhere a-and I-I-I didn’t see him.”

Oh. Well, that made more sense then. But damning a twelve year or thirteen year old for an accident? Seemed excessive, even to Vox. Usually he punished people for, you know, actual mistakes. There was the occasional fuck up that couldn’t be ignored obviously, but he’d think kids would get a special pass, at least.

“So, what? You bury his body in the middle of nowhere?”

He shook his head.

“I just…I just panicked. I drove off…I…I didn’t even try to help.”

“…okay, then what? You lie to everyone and get someone else convicted?”

There had to be another reason…right?

“No. I only drove another few miles before the truck happened.”

Wait. Wait.

“You mean to tell me that you got damned to hell because of an accident? You? A kid?”

“…I…I think’s it more because I ran instead of helping-”

He said more but Vox toned him out because what the actual fuck. No wonder hell was overpopulated. An accident? An accident was all it took to send an otherwise innocent soul to shack up with the murderers, rapists, and tyrants of the world?

You knew something was wrong when he thought that heaven or whoever was in charge of this nonsense went too far.

“I am not drunk enough to process this.”

“You’ve had two bottles already.”

He had? Huh. Where’d the second bottle come from? A quick look revealed that he was holding a bottle, a different one from the one on the table. Though, from his spot on the couch, it’s started to look like four bottles rather than two. Again, not a good sign.

A quick check of his internal clock told he needed to be in bed like two hours ago if he’d planned on getting up without issue in the morning. He went to stand, putting just the barest amount of weight on his legs when he felt them buckle. Okay, too drunk and too weak to walk. Brilliant.

“See that blanket over there?” He gestured to the same one the kid found yesterday, labeled with their logo in that warm flannel knit. It was on Val’s couch which meant it might not exactly be clean, but if he’d been scared away by that about Val, they wouldn’t be in their stupid little back and forth all the time. “Go get it.”

He did as he was told. Being sober granted him the ability to at least check it before bringing it over. In that time, Vox pushed around pillows, making a small wall that he planned to use as a rest for his screen. The kid held the throw out, and he wasted no time in tossing it over himself. He always had to make sure it didn’t accidentally cover his fans, least he overheats and really needs a tune up in the morning. Almost as soon as he laid down right, everything in his body seemed to be losing power. Feedbacks were starting to fail. Limbs started turning to jelly.

“Do I have to sleep on the floor again? It’s cold on the floor.”

“Kid, could you just shut up? I’ve had too long of a day to deal with this.”

“…is that a no?”

Sparks started flying about his face, some getting dangerously close to the blanket. By now, most of the casual fabrics lounging around their inner sanctum up here have been made fireproof. Live and learn and all that. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t been known not to melt a few of them when in a particularly bad mood, anger he tries to keep tight on a leash.

Except when he’s drunk. Like now. Which is a bit of a problem.

Calm down. You don’t want to set the tower on fire now, do you? No, you don’t. That’d be bad for the reputation, the brand’s reputation, and especially your reputation. You don’t want him to win again, do you?

Plus, you’d have to deal with pissed off Val and Vel.

He steeled his nerves and opened his eyes a bit.

“Clean this shit up and I’ll think about it.” He wouldn’t. He’d be passed out long before clean up would be finished.

“…pinkie promise?”

Were pinkie promises deals? He didn’t think so. Nothing in his database said they were.

“Yeah, sure.”

Despite the dark circles on his eyes, the kid was surprisingly springy. And trusting, because he seemed to just take Vox’s word on the matter. He caught him bounding around the table like a jack rabbit in his fading peripheral vision, his red fur blending in with the maroon hues of the cushions around. Right before everything went offline, he had an odd moment of clarity.

He was unarmed, drunk, passed out on the couch at the disposal of someone who would literally only gain from his death. It wasn’t like he was under contract. His guards wouldn’t be so stupid as to let the kid leave, but it’s not like any of them could reach him in time if, say, the kid poured the whisky into his outlet.

This is a bad idea, he concluded. Then he knocked out.

Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4/ Part 5/ Part 6/ Part 7/ Part 8/ Part 9/ Part 10

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