Chapter Text
Vox is alive. Of course Alastor knows that. Feels that insipid signal of his, reaching out occasionally, skittering through electronics like a rat. Always retreating when Alastor's own closes in on it. Perhaps he thinks he hasn't been spotted yet. Or perhaps he knows- it could very well be bait, for all he knows.
If the other Vees decided to shelter him, they've done an exceedingly good job of hiding it. No trace of the man has been seen anywhere near them. They've gone back to doing what they do best- Velvette, with her label, Valentino, pouncing on anything that moves. According to the spider, he hasn't taken losing his favourite toy well, exactly, but neither of the overlords seems to have the stamina or the will for a fight. For all his flaws, Vox had always been the one with the vision, the drive. Drive that could have gone somewhere if not for his crippling insecurity.
And perhaps marginally due to the man who'd driven a crowbar into those insecurities and cracked them wide open for the world to see. Details.
Today he's in a back corner of what used to be the Entertainment District. The signal had definitely come from here. The traces were always strongest when he used other devices, and back in his nest, they had practically been a beacon. Announcing where Vox had scurried off to this time. And really, he could tell himself he was just checking in on a potential threat to the hotel, keeping Charlie safe and all. But it would be a lie to say he isn't very ready to see Mr. High and Mighty down in the dirt. Maybe he'd drag Vox off to a smoothie shop if he was feeling generous!
He's unsurprised to see the Voxtech shops sit empty, with their gaping glass maws of broken teeth left unattended. While he couldn't understand the draw of modern technology himself, most of Hell certainly didn't share his view. The products were still highly desirable. Both for resale and personal use. Perhaps doubly so now that Big Brother could no longer monitor the currents.
And there's the fact that it's free. Any deal that ends in free is a good one, especially down here. With Vox's contracts shattered in his desperate bid for godhood, his employees had— predictably and rightfully— bolted for the exits. No such luck for the other employees of the Vees. But that young eel fellow is a dab hand at the hotel administration, so he really doesn't mind losing out on dancers and models, if he had to pick one of the sets to take home.
Of course, he didn't necessarily agree with paying the reedy little micromanager. Charlie had insisted, though, and that was her misstep to make. Apparently, people had silly things like mortgages to worry about. If they'd only try menacing the building owner into submission, they'd be amazed how few expenditures they racked up! True, his incomings were also rather limited, but that was because he had no need for them, either. Unlike a certain someone who couldn't help connecting to V-Bux banking terminals all over Hell~
Tracking wasn't an exact science. It never could be, with the most vicious prey of all. But there were always ways. Little means and tricks to make things less time-consuming.
As he stepped onto King Street, the signal seemed to be at its strongest. Humming to himself, he stepped through broken glass and masonry, spinning his newly-minted staff in hand as he walked. There was something about the heft of it that just put a man at ease. Almost as much as a meeting with an erstwhile old pal! He was just oh-so-concerned after Vox's big public meltdown. Like any good friend would be.
Passing the midpoint of the street, the signal grows ever so slightly fainter. He stops and pivots on his heel back to the strongest point. An apartment building. Some nondescript redbrick thing the Vees had built for all the new sinners they were scooping up, a block of tiny apartments designed for a poor unsuspecting worker to pour their life savings into. Another of a hundred tiny cruelties Hell has nurtured over the years.
It'll be harder finding Vox if he's hiding out in one of these shoeboxes. His shadow stretches out behind him and darts under the door to begin, yet the man himself takes time to jab his staff into the feeble electronic lock and twist its signals around into knots until it falls open under the assault. Oh, he does feel bad for whoever will have to repair that. But the hit of nostalgia does wonders for his already cheery mood.
It's his shadow's third pass of the building that notes a lock clicking open, and Alastor is on that floor before the person inside can even get their door open. They can provide him information, at least. There simply isn't any way that the residents here wouldn't know if Vox was among them. Even if he were squatting to hide out, someone would have seen him, noticed sounds from an empty apartment.
Except none of that is necessary.
Vox is standing there. Bewildered, Alastor blinks, and sees Vox mirror his motion without time to think about it. He looks...different. Bad. Immediately the electrical tape seizes his attention- thick rolls of it, covering the entire left side of Vox's face. The hypnotic eye he'd smashed in their battle. His usual suit has been replaced by plain black slacks and a navy shirt, buttoned in a hurry so the top three had been left entirely open.
There are neat rows of teeth marks all the way up his neck.
Alastor's eye lingering there is what finally snaps him back to life. Pleased, Alastor braces for the yelling, his magic burning under his skin at the thought of—
Vox pulls the door closed behind him and begins down the hallway without a word.
...It takes a few moments for things to sink in. He has to shake himself- mentally and physically- before hurrying after the other man. By the time he reaches Vox, he's pulled on his black jacket and is rummaging in the pocket for something. A wad of cash. As they walk, Vox thumbs out a smaller bill and transfers it to his waist pocket.
They maintain their bizarre silent march all the way to the elevator. Vox steps in, Alastor steps through his shadows down to the ground floor, and they meet in the lobby. Walk out and down the street to a smaller bodega operating out of what was once a Veesion VR. Vox buys a bottle of cheap whiskey from a battered cardboard box that clearly 'fell off' a van somewhere. Shoves it into one of the jacket's pockets so he can button up his shirt properly. Takes it back under his arm the minute he's done.
Halfway back up the street, Alastor, surprisingly, has to break the silence. "Do you really not have anything to say, old pal~?"
They both stop almost in unison. There. That's more like it. Alastor presses the advantage, stepping in front of Vox with his grin stretched wide. "A few months ago, you'd have given an arm and a leg for me to pay you a personal visit! Now you're acting like a sullen teenager! Don't tell me you don't appreciate my company anymore, Vox~?"
Between thin glitching layers, it looks like Vox's mouth wavers. As if he's going to respond. As if he has so much to say, the words have piled up in the back of his throat. A problem Alastor had walked him through, taught him to calm down and try to untangle his thoughts before vocalising them, lest others take him as over-eager.
After an age, his eye drops back to the pavement, and he resumes his walk.
...this simply won't do. Alastor doesn't stop him walking, but he does follow. The path weaves carefully through back alleys with a singular focus that shows he does have some plan in mind. They're heading closer to the centre of the Entertainment District, not far now from where the Vees' tower once stood. A sharp left turn brings them back onto the main street. Vox crosses over to a storefront that had likely been quite impressive before. There are still remnants of the fifties-style boutique it had once been, remnants of the style and trimmings still hanging on here and there where they can. Where vandals hadn't seen a use for them.
The front has been broken into, so it's a trivial matter for Vox to step over the jutting lower sill and down into the store. He doesn't look down once while traversing the fallen mannequins or fabric rolls. Further back, there's less damage. Violent fury having been expended in short bursts. The fitting rooms are almost untouched.
One of the mirrors is smashed. The edges of the impacts are lined with cyan smears. Alastor makes note of it and moves on.
In the dressing room at the very back of the boutique, he finds something of a den behind the dusty curtain. Rolls of fabric from the front have been dragged in to make something of a bed; a nest, really. A small camping stove is pushed up against the wall furthest from any flammable fabrics, and just next to it, a plastic display tray with various nonperishable foods.
This is where Vox lives. The thought is a pound of bricks to his skull: that Vox has a practiced route here, that he has everything arranged into a living space. The sight of it all is so pathetic he struggles to stifle a laugh. Vox drops into 'bed' with the whiskey in hand, cutting the seal with one of his claws so he can begin his day drinking with a zeal most reserve for real achievements.
A sizeable dent is put in the whiskey before Vox looks back up at him. "Is there anything I could say that would actually change anything?" In days gone, it would be a plea, Vox hanging onto his coattails. Now, it's nothing but resignation. "No. And you know that. I'm not a threat. I'm not scheming shit. I just wanna be alone."
"Oh, yes, you've done a wonderful job of ensuring that! And now look where you've landed. Empire crumbled, dreams all in ash...still so wrapped up in the past," he adds, letting his eyes drag over the fabrics Vox has tucked himself into. Patterned with the moth's wing stripes and the girl's gaudy designs. "Ah, such a shame. For a man of your stature to fall so low. Perhaps low enough that you'd be desperate to do...anything to reclaim your empire~?" Vox doesn't take the hand offered. Even in this state, Alastor hadn't expected him to, so it doesn't sting. “So you’d like me to leave?”
He takes a swig of whiskey. “I can’t make you.” And another.
Alastor draws an inhale through his teeth, smile strained. “And would you like me to?”
“Sure. If you want. I can’t make you,” Vox replies, listless. Sat in this…this box, his outstretched legs nearly touch the opposite wall, everything about this makes him so small and it’s dull. There has to be a way to provoke a reaction. To puzzle out what’s wrong. Claw open the pretence and dig his talons into the vulnerable feelings beneath, force Vox to talk about—Ah!
Of course. If Hell had any experts on forcing the unwilling and belligerent to open up…
“Excuse me, Vox. I’ll need to borrow you!” he chirps, shadows pooling around his feet. With four rather large pulls of whiskey in his system, he knows Vox won’t be able to react before he’s yanked down into the darkness. Alastor chuckles to himself and steps in after him.
When they emerge from the shadows, the two of them are stood— in Vox’s case, sprawled –in front of the Hazbin Hotel.