Chapter Text
Ahhh… what a show.
Spotlights, thunder, cheers—the old staples. Nothing stirs a crowd like a well-timed lie dressed as hope. Vox understands that. I almost admire it.
It used to be my obsession. To boast iver my own broasdcast. but now...
Almost.
I sit just offstage, tied up like a prop for a punchline, my smile fixed neatly in place. The grin never falters. It never does. But my staff—oh, my ever-faithful companion—doesn’t let me enjoy the performance in peace.
“You recognize this tactic.”
Yes, yes, I do. Please, do continue ruining my evening.
Vox preaches unity. Vox preaches liberation. Vox claims he alone sees the truth. The crowd roars because they want to believe him.
“You once told yourself the same.”
How rude.
I never forced it upon them to commit the same as me.
I never intended to be the shepherd to guide to my beleifs.
The staff hums, low and intimate, broadcasting not Vox’s voice—but others’.
A man who beat his son because his father beat him first.
A woman who sold out her neighbors to survive one more winter.
A sinner who resisted violence until desperation hollowed him out.
A killer who never pretended it was justice.
Ash yes the same stories over and over againwith slight deviations.
We already knew being told again would not change anything unless actions were taken
but not for me
it was a constant reminder
One i could never escape
“These are the people you never listened to.”
I tighten my grip.
I used to tell myself I hunted monsters. Abusers. Hypocrites. I USED to tell myself I was different.
“They told themselves that too.”
Lucifer descends in flame, roaring about crowns and punishment, and Vox laughs. The crowd laughs with him. And something curdles in my chest as Vox spits rhetoric about kings, chains, and freedom.
“You despised tyrants.”
“You became one.”
The angels arrive with apologies too little, too late. Vox tears them apart with words alone, and the crowd devours it. I feel the familiar thrill—the hunt, the turning of a mob.
“This is how it begins.”
Sera admits the truth. The exterminations were never about justice—only control.
The crowd surges.
Vox declares war.
“You once mistook rage for righteousness.”
The microphone’s tone shifts then. Softer. Not kinder—clearer.
At first for me there was a reason. they killed my mom. the sweet innocent lady that had no reason of having such a terrible end.
But what is there once it's all over? When you can't change what happened
And you decide instead to ensure no one gets the same fate
The wrong actions for the assumed right reasons
But was it still considered wrong if you removes what drives it ?The rage?
“You see it now.”
Yes. I do.
Vox isn’t wrong about Heaven’s cruelty. But he is lying about himself. And the crowd doesn’t care—because pain wants permission, not truth.
“This is what would have happened if you’d never stopped.”
I keep smiling. Of course I do. The Radio Demon doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t weep. Doesn’t repent in public.
But inside?
I listen.
Because I no longer get to choose what parts of the story matter.
I did stop the killings for quite a long time unless through necessity .
Hell is not kind. and one has to uphold his reputation.
...Not much when you are forced to dissapear for an entirety of 7 years.
At least the first 3 to 4 years of that time had been the best
Before being forced to go to heaven.
“You are not above them.”
“You never were.”
“That is why you can choose differently now.”
The angels flee. Vox laughs. Charlie is left behind—alone.
And I remain in the shadows, grin sharp, soul quiet, microphone humming at my side.
A broadcaster who can no longer escape the broadcast.
A monster who finally learned how to listen.
unlike many but still among some
Not the only one
Never an exception
And Hell?
Hell will never know just how close it came to hearing my voice again.
.
.
.
They always return louder than they left.
I hear him before I see him — boots striking the floor in a rhythm meant to be noticed, static crackling with the aftershocks of applause still clinging to his circuitry. Vox is glowing. Not literally — though he’s doing that too — but in the way men glow when they believe history has finally bent its knee.
I swivel in my chair uncaring. It sets off the atmosphere
Rope bites into my wrists, coarse and insulting.
The chair is uncomfortable on purpose. A prop, really. Theatrics. Vox does love his stagecraft.
I still enjoy the small joys a get. I never realised how a chair with wheels could be so... diverting
My smile does not waver.
My microphone hums.
“STANDING OVATION,” it murmurs dryly into my skull.
“FOR A MAN WHO THINKS A CROWD IS CONSENT.”
Ah. We’re in agreement.
The curtain parts. Vox strides in like a conqueror returning from war, antenna buzzing, screen saturated with self-satisfaction. He doesn’t look at me right away. That, too, is deliberate.
Let the captive wait. Let the moment stretch.
Let power marinate.
“How did I do?” he asks the room, not me.
His voice still carries the echo of chanting sinners — We matter. Vox Populi.
I wonder how many of them will still matter when they stop being useful.
My microphone does not wait politely.
“ANSWER: LOUDLY.”
“SECOND ANSWER: POORLY.”
I stifle a chuckle. Barely.
Vox turns at last, eyes narrowing when he sees my grin intact.
“…You look disappointed.”
“On the contrary,” I say brightly. “I haven’t been this entertained since the invention of color television. Bravo, old sport. You rallied the masses, humiliated Heaven, and managed to insult Lucifer all in one evening. A trifecta !”
He bristles. Good.
“You heard it, then. You heard them.”
His screen flickers, lightning crawling beneath the glass.
“They chose me.”
The microphone leans into my mind like a stage whisper.
“THEY CLAPPED FOR THE WEATHERMAN TOO.”
Oof. That one stings even me.
Vox steps closer. Too close. He always does when he’s trying to feel taller.
“You see now, don’t you?” he says. “This is what leadership looks like. Not lurking in shadows. Not nostalgia. Progress.”
Progress.
I tilt my head, rope creaking.
“My dear weather man,” I say softly, deliberately using the term he hates most, “you didn’t lead them anywhere. You tuned them.”
His jaw tightens.
The microphone sharpens its tone.
“HE MISTAKES VOLUME FOR VISION.”
“COMMON ERROR. FATAL USUALLY.”
Vox’s screen glitches — just a flicker — and there it is.
That old wound.
The one he pretends is ambition.
The one that smells like a bar soaked in gin and broken expectations.
“You don’t get to judge this,” he snaps. “Not from a chair. Not after everything.”
“Everything?” I echo lightly. “Oh, do clarify. Is this about the war you just declared, or the godhood you think is waiting for you upstairs?”
He laughs — brittle, electric.
“You’re scared,” he says. “You always were. That’s why you hide behind manners and monsters. But me? I’m not afraid to be seen.”
The microphone sighs.
“HE CONFUSES EXPOSURE WITH HONESTY.”
I feel it then — the old pressure in my chest. The weight of years. Of Voci’s fragments humming faintly in my coat like trapped starlight.
I always kept it near me . More than ever when death was very close to me.
Vox doesn’t know.
He never did.
He might never know
He mistook proximity for intimacy.
Imitation for connection.
Humiliation for destiny.
Why else would he wear a winning grin each time he would step into my personal space?
Why would he copy his victims color palettes?
“You stood there,” he continues, voice rising, “and watched while I became the voice of Hell. While they chanted my name.”
“Yes,” I say pleasantly. “You always did prefer an audience.”
That’s when he loses patience.
He reaches out and grips my chin, claws cold, electric. Forces my gaze up to his screen.
“Say it,” he demands. “Say I won.”
The microphone goes very quiet.
Then — gently, inexorably —
“HE WON NOTHING.”
“HE REPEATED A CYCLE.”
I meet Vox’s gaze.
And for the first time tonight, I do not mock him.
“You won’t like what comes next,” I tell him calmly. “Applause fades. Crowds get hungry. And gods—” I smile wider, sharper. “—are so very edible.”
Something flickers across his screen.
Fear?
No.
Recognition.
He steps back, scowling, and masks it with fury.
“Enjoy your chair,” he spits. “Enjoy being irrelevant.”
He turns to leave.
The microphone offers one last comment, sweet as cyanide.
“HE STILL WANTS YOU TO LOOK.”
The door slams.
Silence returns.
The ropes remain.
My smile finally softens — just a fraction.
The microphone lowers its voice.
“YOU DID NOT STRIKE.”
“No,” I murmur.
“YOU WANTED TO.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then, not unkindly:
“RESTRAINT IS NOT COWARDICE.”
“IT IS CHOICE.”
I close my eyes.
Voci’s fragments hum — not screaming, not accusing.
Waiting.
“So he’s finally done it,” I say quietly. “Declared himself king.”
The microphone hums.
“KINGS FALL.”
I smile again — this time, genuinely.
“Then let him reign,” I whisper.
“Just long enough to make the fall unforgettable.”
The broadcast continues.
And I listen.