Chapter Text
Dingy was the evening, and yet that perhaps described every twilight in Hell. The pentagram was cast in an oozing, languid glow which clung to the distant horizon and nearby windows alike. Suffocating. The air hung thick like syrup, parasitically clinging to flesh. This was life, after death. And yet, it was true, too, that many did not find suffering in Hell - not as people might expect. It was simply not fire and brimstone; it was more of the same, amplified. It was a cesspool of humanity’s worst desires crammed into a sardine can. Anyone could get a good view of the dreary hellscape from the tower. Anyone, that is, so long as they were one of the lucky few to clasp tight leashes; the air for those sinners was thinner there, raised high above the nameless masses. Some people were simply born sharks.
Vox leant forwards to the desk, pressing the length of his lower arm to its flattened surface to support his weight. After the motion bobbed two antennae, rounded off by red spheres - both standing in a straight, asymmetrical ‘V’. With the subtle shift came a small dip of his boxy head. The reddish hue of the pride ring faded on his sharp edges into a concrete grey colouring. Red eyes encapsulating electric blue pupils were settled across to the woman - if it could be called that - which occupied his office. A dry laugh rolled from him as he shifted the topic. It was mock politeness for his guest, who had him baring down his pointed teeth harsher with each passing minute as he fought to display his charming smile.
Across sat a sinner - more metallic than fleshy. Her attire was sleek, formal and mostly covering. A formal dress, with a simple pencil skirt. One could easily mistake her for a future Voxtek creation, if she wasn't so devoid of blatant Vee markings and all too advanced. A distinct logo would have stood out against her similarly off-yellow body. It was the kind of colour that screamed retro-tech, and the kind of paling that might fit a corpse. Hideous, really. From the back of her head came two sable tubes, which connected down at the nape of her neck. The most revealing part of her was the curved figure, yet the head she bore was naught beyond an angular, chunky camera, all too fat in the base - a simple sensor at best - with its single lens focused on the sharp entertainment mogul. At the very end, a singular, green eye watched in low-lidded attention.
"So with your special expertise," Vox raised a single hand to motion across, before to himself, “and my influence, we can grasp the masses and have them chomping at the bit to support our goals. I can have your latest work cast on every VoxTek channel in Hell. There won't be a single eye," His brows raised in expectant glee, a short pause given to let his words sink in, before falling at the lack of stirring from his interlocutor, "who can miss it.” The TV-head explained, mouth cast into a wide, sharpened grin regardless of his earlier social faux pas. Slim. Confident. He pressed back into his seat, hands raised to splay his fingers across his sights, all to unveil his business partner. “The future.” And, for the observant eye, that grin grew a hair too tense. “Whaddya say?”
A blue-clawed hand extended over in an offer to shake. A deal. It was pre-emptive, he understood, and a bid to lay passive pressure into accepting. Albeit, such was a tactic best used against idiots. It was best used against those with little emotional control, or those so scared shirtless of him they didn't think twice - or didn't dare reject an offer. If he'd come to understand anything throughout this meeting and their previous endeavours, it was that this bitch was neither of those things. Still, nobody could blame him for the attempt.
One singular lens turned away from Vox as his brows raised, leaving his hand to coil coldly in the open air. It - she - scanned the room. Slow. Meticulous. Utterly unbothered. At least, it appeared that was the case to the overlord, who for the life of him could not get a clear read on this freak with no mouth to speak of. There was no smile, no frown. No simple twitch of the lip. Just that whirring lens. That did not mean he had no read, though. He just didn't like the one he had ascertained.
"No."
The noise fuzzed, not quite perfect. It didn’t even sound as if it cast from that head - but instead rather a bit lower. Her shoulders, or chest.
It was simple. It cut.
He feigned incredulity. Vox gasped out a laugh. A breathy, half-hearted exasperation escaped him as he craned forth, "What? Sorry? I didn't quite hear that." His hand dropped to the desk. To tap.
The lens returned to him as his non-chalant lean turned stiff-straight, both hands raised to steeple his claws against one another.
"No," Her voice echoed again, "I do not care for having worthless masses hail my name and interfere with my work. It is needless tedium.” Her posture never shifted, aside from her turn of the shoulders to correct. It was straight, very proper.
"Who said they've got to work for you, hm? Or even know?"
“You-”
“Did I now?” His calm posture was broken as Vox raised from his seating, claws raking lightly on his desk. Even so, thin, splintered scratches were left. "Now, now. All I meant was that this could be mutually beneficial to what we want to achieve. With power like what I and Valentino can grant, you'll be limitless. Just-” He rounded his desk, heeled steps coming to still behind his guest as his hands raised to settle on her shoulders. She was softer than he expected, given her sheen. “-imagine it! You.” He leant, until the blue, fuzzing screen of his tainted his guest's sheen with his own obtrusive brightness, “With all of your little techno-gadgets and access to our servers - which are the best and most extensive in Hell - inventing. Creating. Pushing our Hell into the Hell of Tomorrow!” A jovial shake was passed down the woman via his grasp, before he raised once more and yet he released only one of her shoulders, “C'mon, you know we're all you need.”
“More popularity means more attention to my work.” Came the reply as the sensor swivelled around, too far to be natural on her slim neck. It churned as the singular lens zoomed in on the raised demon, his shoulders squared. The lonely eye bloated, enveloping the entirety of the lens.
He would never admit it, but such a look was unnerving. Most sinners were, at least, understandable as people. And her, while her body curved and had all that one might outwardly expect of a woman, and two arms, and two legs, that head was just wrong. He half wondered if people looked at him the same way, sporting a TV. Albeit, he at least had a face. A real face. He was rich. He was handsome. What the fuck was she supposed to be?
“You feast upon attention. You devour attention. Your simple lust will become a migraine.”
“Alright, alright - so you don't want the public eye.” Her shoulders were released from his clutches before he came to lean on the edge of his desk, prowling about to her front. They were closer, yet he was raised higher. It was a little more personal, but he relented nothing. “So you can just do a little - er - PR once in a while instead. We just need people to trust you a little, yeah?”
He supposed from this angle she wasn’t half bad. Her shoulders had a kind of delicate slope, and she had come clothed appropriately. There was a pleasing aspect about her professionalism. However, she dressed in black; it was a little like she was visiting a funeral. He could spy the dip of her cleavage from above though, so that was a bonus. At least until his gaze snapped back up to that eye, and he was reminded that fucking her would be like banging a printer. In what kindness Hell had to offer, that made focusing on the business end of the interaction easier.
“No.”
It took every inch of practised will-power he had accrued over his years alive, and dead, for the overlord to merely tilt his screen up, slim his gaze and think. “Now aren’t you just a tough cookie.”
“I prefer to think of it as protecting my interests.”
That drew a terse, thin smile from him.
His few seconds of silence felt more like minutes. He wanted her. He needed her. Not, of course, for any fascination. It was no obsession. She was an ugly bitch. However, she was useful. Of course, if she had any public image while working for him and Valentino, she would need to be dolled up. At least, to what extent could be managed. He suspected she would flatly refuse to co-operate with that aspect of their business, too.
As he cracked open his jaw to speak, she shifted. She raised. Small, edged pupils snapped her way.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
And with those words did Vox lean himself off from the desk-edge. “Hey, now, let’s not be hasty!”
“We’ve been here for an hour.”
“We aren’t finished.” He insisted, lowly, taking a step fourth.
“I am.”
His steps stilled. Eyes faintly narrowed, before his grin raised, too pointed. His insides screamed at him to drive his claws into her sides and leave her screaming, fried, for such a blunt, insolent manner of speaking to him. But he restrained himself. She was useful. She would be useful. He would make her useful. “Right,” Blue-clawed hands instead raise a singular time to clap together, folding upon one another neatly, “Of course. I’m sure you have important matters to be focused on.” His heeled steps crossed towards his office door. “We’ll put a lid on this and return to it another time.” His gaze turned off to her, even if she had yet to move beyond turning her unwavering stare his way. “And don’t think this doesn’t mean an end to our relations. We’ll have your shipment over next week.” He stilled by the door, awaiting her presence.
She seemed to freeze for a moment - a notably long one. Her single eye squinted, just barely, from below. It was a blink-and-you-miss-it gesture. Vox didn’t miss it. Then, steadily, she crossed her way over to stand before him. There was a patience about the motion as she peered to the still-closed door, then the businessman himself. “Always a pleasure, Mister Vox.”
“Anytime, Daisy.”
The latch clicked as he opened the door for her. A true gentleman, he was.
“Fuck!”
Tail-coats whirled after the shark as he paced his penthouse. Stern steps landed harshly on smooth tiles as he strode to and fro. His mind whirred with questions, with answers, with plans. Yet, as of now, each stray thought was merely a potential in time.
Lounged upon a long couch, pupiless eyes trailed after Vox. A four-armed moth sinner accompanied him, a fellow overlord. One hand settled to their hip, one propped up their squished cheek, one delicately clutched a long smoking stick which wafted with pink, and the last merely dangled. Wrapped tightly in his red wings, it draped finely around him as would a cloak. “Oh, come now Voxxy,” He drawled, sultry as ever, “Has this little chiquita really got you that hot and bothered?”
“No!” Came a snap, a stop, and hands whirled in gestures as Vox hastened out: “She left - just left. Nobody just leaves. We were in the middle of a meeting. We could have- could have worked something out!” Abruptly, he stopped, snapping his direction off the window beside himself. His gaze scanned his faded reflection: the way he scowled, the buzzing brim of static that arced sporadically over his form. Arms were raised to fold, and they wound heavily over his chest, knotting around each other.
An amused chuckle resounded. “Oh, Baby,” Smoke drizzled freely from Valentino, “Are we going to kill a bitch?” The moth came to grin, gold tooth glinting. His two tended, full antennae seemed to raise from their droop at the prospect. He could go for a little violence. Just a taste. It always got the blood pumping.
“Er - no,” Vox half-laughed, before one hand uncoiled from the fold of his arms, raising his hand to settle the edge of his index finger, coiled, against his screen at his approximation of a temple. His eyes had slunk closed. It was the next best thing to pinching the bridge of his nose, not that he had one any more. “She’s valuable, Val. Valuable. She’s not a whore. Or one of the company’s bottom feeders. She could elevate my projects and she can’t do that if she’s incapacitated or unco-operative.”
Val lowered his hand, and with it his smoking stick. Without ceremony, his grin fell, and he followed suit with a dramatic huff. “Well, I don’t see what’s so special about her. She, like, ew, she doesn’t even have a face.” He growled. “We could just snatch her up, widen some holes in her - then plug ‘em.” The thought already raised his grin once more, “it’s not like she’ll die. She just needs a little punishment.” The moth’s shoulders raised and fell with his barely audible chortles, finding his imagination carrying him away.
Vox could only groan and roll his eyes, maintaining his look out upon the city.
His attention wandered the distant palace and how it loomed over his tower. Tower. He called it that because it sounded more grand, but it really wasn't any different from the surrounding skyscrapers. He dragged his focus up the heights of the Heaven embassy: a waste of space that out-shined his own landmark, too. It's not like those enlightened morons did anything for Hell. Not like him. He was building something.
Then, down below he watched the filled streets. Ever-packed, was Pentagram city. There wasn’t such a thing as a quiet corner of Hell. Even as people strolled in their daily lives, he could see snippets of their lives. Most, normal. Normal for the living, anyway. But that did not protect the ant below that seemed to be shoved - maybe stabbed - before another sinner wrenched something from them and ran. It didn’t stop the car that raced through, clipping a curb and sending it side-first into another, parked vehicle. He could swear the blotches that flew from the crash were the occupants of the vehicle, ending up in a pile of unmoving scrapes and smothers on the road.
“Maybe,” he rumbled, at least finding some merit to Valentino’s suggestion. He was not beyond kidnapping and torture for what he wanted. Albeit, it was not optimal. It wasn’t a part of his perfect ideals. His plan. He wanted her on his side. If he dared to act against her so harshly, he would surely dash all future prospects. He would ruin her co-operation for the future. Perhaps, if one kept a stern thumb, that wouldn't be an issue. It would be for Vox. Daisy was needed. Daisy would be working with the internals of his projects. He couldn't risk her becoming a leak. Whether he got her under contract or not, she would always be out to ruin him if he harmed her.
And that just wouldn't do.
He took in a slow breath, slinking his eyes closed. Slowly, he sighed it out. It was a moment of peace.
Yet, it was disrupted when hands slid around his waist. More pressed down over his shoulders as Valentino leant his face beside Vox's own screen. Out puffed pink smoke to their reflection, dispersing widely against the glass. Vox couldn’t help but crack his eyes open. To peer at what he had. The sight left a low, rolling boil in his chest. It reminded him of what he didn’t have.
“You’re too tense. You’re putting all of your big thoughts into her,” Val raised a hand, a shoulder one, to flick and twirl his finger around Vox’s antennae, “when you need to be putting your big-”
“-Val.”
The interruption merely drew a chuckle. Pink smoke blossomed against Vox’s screen, leaving him with his lips drawn wide and gaze lidded at Val’s not-so-subtle attempts to get him into bed. Val had been trying for a while as of recent, and each time Vox had denied the advance. That was not to say they had not shared some dubiously close times.
Falling asleep together.
Val draped over his lap.
Blatantly hooking up with Val’s whores, with said overlord present.
A little relief from each other, now and then.
But they were business partners. And Val, simply, wasn’t who he wanted. The thought alone had his features tensing - an expression not unnoticed by the Moth.
“Fine.” Displeased, Valentino straightened, setting a hand on either hip as he leaned. One hand cast off to the city-scape, “Sulk. Call me when you need a pick-me-up.” An open offer, even if partially snarled out, and yet with that Valentino stepped off deeper into the room. He left Vox to brood.
Electricity no longer arced, the overlord no longer swore. Instead, in a quiet, dreadful fixation he stared out. Planning. He had to make his plan work. He had to make that perfect team. If not for the success of it, then to show that stupid fucking deer he was right.
Daisy whirled to the left in her chair, reaching out claws hands for a coffee which sat neatly upon a coaster at her desk. It had been positioned away from her work-station: a set-up of three Voxtek monitors, two crawling with research. The middle one, with code. They were hefty things, which required a sizable desk. Each was a similar sort of concrete grey to the overlord. He couldn’t help splashing himself in the most subtle of places.
The mug was raised to the lens and with the blink of a shutter, it was a mouth. Coffee was drank in the most miniscule of sips.
Then, she stared at the streams of commands.
And slowly did she rest back with a break of her office-chair with a quiet creak.
She had not progressed as far as she would have liked. Being a solo-act was tedious. It was even more tedious while distracted.
Vox had, over the years, grown a more frequent presence in her life. At least, since he had clocked onto her talents. Simple: she made code. Not any code - but code for artificial intelligence. The field had gained steam, at least at the time of her death. It waxed and waned in popularity over the decades, but she still believed in it. As far as she understood from her sources, AI was currently in a sort of slump, barricaded by the same, persistent issues over decades. None of these issues were more strangling to corporate funding than the exponentially increasing cost of funding AI research, and the many years of under-performing on over-projected promises. The so-called AI Winter, they called it Top-side. She believed it was The Future. Clearly, Vox held a similar sentiment, irregardless of the Earthly front.
Daisy could count her lucky stars, sometimes. She figured the developed technology in Hell made for a brighter out-look for AI than the limits those still living faced.
Or, perhaps, that was just his buttery talk. He certainly did seem invested in all things new and trendy. Once the living had a new model of phone, Vox wasn't far behind. This was the same for computers, and televisions, and home utilities. Except, of course, the radio.
Now, Daisy could not regard AI as ‘new’ but perhaps she could say it was ‘trendy’, on occasion. The world could truly crack into an unimaginable era if the barriers could just be broken. As of her death, AI was not the ground-breaking world-reinventor that she had been promising investors. It was limited to simpler functions. It could play music. It could walk. It could do math. It could engage a simple conversation.
But she knew it could be more.
The curious thing she had found about Hell, now that she had been there for a decade or so, was that advancements were rather rapid. There was technology in Hell that they could dream of on Earth. She had learned that the Pride ring, where all Sinners resided, was connected to various other rings of Hell. While sinners could not access other rings, hell-borns could. This made for an intricate trade-network of ideas among billions of unearthly creatures, and even more ex-earthly ones. Yet, it wasn't AI which had advanced.
She was going to change that.
In many ways, she already had. It was why Vox had such a keen interest in their working business relations. And, she knew, he wanted her more closely on board.
But Vox was a complete moron.
His arrogance and ego were on full display, all the time. There’s almost no way he could keep the sorts of technological secrets she held for long enough to keep it out of rival hands. He wanted to spread it. Gain support. It would result in all her hard-work being stolen. As she was now, her developments could remain low-key and, importantly, hers.
With a slow breath in, her lens shuttered back to an eye and the coffee was settled down. Drawing her chair fourth, her hands were raised to click upon her keyboard.
“Turing,” Her voice droned in a call, and once there came a scampering of steps her claws were raised to tap upon the rim of her mug, “This is foul.”
Turing moved his hands before him to clasp, before he buckled up the nerve to step over. Unclasping his hands led him to reach and pick up the coffee, which he figured was, in fact, decidedly cold.
Clacking keys came to a stop as Daisy swivelled in her chair. Her pointed claws settled to one another as the lonesome lens drifted from the mug, held near the mid-section of Turning's chest, to his face.
Turing was a curious little thing. It's why Daisy liked him. He had overly lanky arms and fingers, with notable bolts in each joint. His hair was not a soft, luscious waver but a congregation of corded wires. He was, however, not as bright as she would have liked.
When she leaned over, a claw settled to tap upon the mug one final time. An innocent, slow tap. “Don't bring me this rubbish again.”
“Yes, Ma'am,” His head dipped. Turing himself could swear the fault did not lie with him. Even so, he knew better than to show back-chat. “I'll have a new one for you right away.” Spilled from his lips instead. And as soon as he had said it, he swivelled upon his heel to hasten out.
Daisy watched the door as it drifted closed, before her chair was swivelled once more to the monitors. Yet, her gaze filed further past to the window as she took in the sight of the street. She sat upon the second floor of her building, leaving her safe from ground-floor ruckus. There would be no creeps flashing themselves through the glass, or bricks being thrown - at least aimed ones - at her head. It was a better arrangement than most in Hell, but it was still notably dismal.
She was still mixed among the feral masses. She hated those faceless masses. She detested the idea of PR.
And yet, when her gaze scoured her little work-space before settling into her typing once more, she couldn't help but consider if the torture would be worth her while.