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The update begins the way it always does: methodically, without friction.
Vox schedules it for a lull in Hell’s broadcast cycle, when the numbers dip just enough that no one will really notice the brief absence. A responsible executive knows when to disappear. He routes priority processes to backup servers, shutters the wide, expansive windows of his penthouse-style office, and seals the doors. The lights dim to a sterile blue.
“System maintenance in progress,” his voice announces to the empty room, prerecorded and calm. Not necessarily his voice, but one that was sourced from his system nonetheless.
Vox leans back in the central chair at his control desk, fingers drumming against the armrest as lines of code scroll across the inside of his vision. He feels the update start to take hold—not pain, exactly, but pressure. A reorganization. The subtle panic of structures and pathways being moved while his signals are still inside them.
He exhales slowly.
“Just a patch,” he mutters. “Nothing structural.”
The microphones in his monitor flicker.
Not with power—they’re off, afterall—but with presence. A soft, almost incorrect hum creeps into the room, like feedback searching for a host.
Vox doesn’t look up. He doesn’t have to.
“I don’t believe I’ve asked you to guest star for me recently, have I?,” Vox asks rhetorically, a slight air of mockery. “And I’m busy.”
Alastor’s laughter blooms anyway, warm and intimate, as though Vox had invited him.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of interrupting,” Alastor muses. “I’m simply… observing.”
A shadow peels itself away from the far console. Alastor steps into the blue light, immaculate as ever, hands folded behind his back, and eyes bright with interest. He looks delighted to have caught Vox at such an opportune time.
Vox grits his teeth. “We broadcast on eighty-something channels. Use one.”
“But this is where you keep the interesting bits,” Alastor replies. His gaze drifts—not to Vox’s face, but to the exposed panels behind him, the open chassis humming softly. “I do love to see what’s under the hood.”
Vox’s screen flickers despite himself.
“Don’t make it weird.”
Alastor chuckles. “My dear Vox, you made it weird the moment you let me in.”
“I didn’t let you in.”
“And yet,” Alastor says mildly, “here I am.”
The update progresses. Vox feels it reorganizing subsystems, pruning redundancies, and optimizing pathways. He watches his own performance metrics rise on the large screen in front of him. Cleaner. Faster. Better.
Safer.
He focuses on that.
“This won’t take long,” Vox says. “So if you’re here to gloat-”
“Hardly.” Alastor moves closer, unhurried, his footsteps silent against the floor. “I’m fascinated.”
“By what?”
“By you,” Alastor says, simply.
Vox snorts. “Join the club.”
Alastor stops just behind Vox’s chair. Not touching—never touching—but close enough that Vox is acutely aware of the space between them. Of how small it feels.
“I wonder,” Alastor continues, conversational, “whether you still remember your first broadcast.”
Vox’s fingers still.
“That was… a long time ago.”
“Mm.” Alastor hums. “Grainy picture. Over-saturated colors. You smiled far too wide.”
Vox bristles. “I’ve improved since then.”
“Undeniably.” Alastor’s voice dips, almost fond. “You’ve improved yourself right out of recognition.”
Vox turns in his chair, screen flaring brighter in unease. There’s a tiny, traitorous lift in him at the almost-compliment. “Say what you mean.”
Alastor’s eyes gleam. “At which update,” he asks softly, “did you stop being the original?”
The question lands harder than Vox expects. He opens his mouth to retort, but hesitates just long enough for a warning ping to chime through his systems. A minor instability. A synchronization lag.
Annoying.
“I’m still me,” Vox says sharply. “Continuity of consciousness. Same identity.”
“Ah,” Alastor says, eyes briefly flitting over the other’s figure. “So you believe yourself a river.”
Vox scoffs. “I don’t have time for metaphors.”
“Indulge me.” Alastor leans forward, bracing his hands on the chair’s back. Vox’s screen fills with him—too close, too present. “A river flows. Its waters change every moment. And yet we give it one name.”
Vox swallows, a lump catching in his throat. “Exactly.”
“But remove the source,” Alastor continues, head tilting ever so slightly, “divert the bed, replace the banks, and at some point—one must ask whether the name refers to anything at all.”
The update stutters.
Vox inhales sharply, turning away from Alastor with fingers flying across the control board, stabilizing the process. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Alastor straightens and watches him work with open fascination. “On the contrary. I know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Then stop distracting me.”
“I could never,” Alastor’s lips twitch upward, a trace of mirth playing at the corners. “You do that beautifully on your own.”
The tension coils tighter: not anger, not fear, but something hotter and more dangerous. Vox is keenly aware of being seen. Not by an audience, not by numbers or metrics, but by a single, unblinking presence.
“Why are you really here?” Vox demands, the cool metal of the desk biting at his skin as he grips the edge.
Alastor considers him for a moment. Then, almost gently, he says, “Because you’re mid-transformation. And creatures are most honest when they’re unfinished.”
Vox laughs, brittle. “You’re projecting.”
“Am I?” Alastor presses forward, circling the chair slowly. “Tell me—how many times have you replaced your visual processors?”
Vox doesn’t answer.
“And your voice modulation?” Alastor presses. “Your emotional heuristics? Your reward pathways?”
“Stop.”
Alastor stops. Right in front of Vox now, a barrier between him and the control panel. Close enough that Vox can see his reflection in Alastor’s eyes—fractured, pixelated, constantly adjusting.
“I will,” Alastor says, “when you tell me which part of you has remained untouched.”
The silence stretches. Not dead air. No, worse. Unfilled.
Vox pulls up archived footage, projecting it into the space between them. Early Vox. Rough edges. A laugh that hadn’t yet been engineered for maximum engagement.
“There,” Vox says. “That’s me.”
Alastor tilts his head, catching the other’s eyes as he stares through the projection, paying it no mind. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Then why,” Alastor asks softly, “do you look at him like a stranger?”
Vox’s systems run hot. He feels it: a faint desync between processes, a microsecond where his sense of self doesn’t quite align.
“I don’t need to be the same,” Vox snaps. “I need to be relevant.”
Alastor’s smile sharpens. “Relevance is a ravenous god.”
Vox stands abruptly, dismissing the projected memory with a wave of his hand. The movement brings them chest to chest, separated only by inches and electricity. Vox’s screen hums, overbright.
“You’re just afraid of being replaced,” Vox spits, brows furrowed. “That’s what this is.”
Alastor laughs quietly. “Oh, my dear.” He leans in, not enough to touch, but enough that Vox’s systems spike, registering proximity as a threat. Or something else. “I was obsolete the moment television was invented.”
Vox falters.
“And yet,” he murmurs, “I remain.”
The update reaches a critical phase. Vox feels subsystems shutting down temporarily, rerouting to backup servers. For a moment, parts of him go quiet.
His screen flickers.
Alastor’s eyes darken with interest. “Careful,” he mutters, chin tipping down. “You’re disappearing.”
Vox’s breath stutters. “It’s—normal.”
“Is it?” Alastor’s voice drops. “Or is this the moment where you discover what’s left when the enhancements fall away?”
Vox turns his screen off.
The world goes dark.
For exactly one second, there is nothing—no image, no analytics, no audience. Just the low hum of servers and the undeniable awareness of Alastor’s presence in the room.
When Vox’s screen snaps back on, the image is flawless. Sharper than ever. Perfectly calibrated.
He exhales, triumphant. “See?”
Alastor studies him with an expression Vox cannot read.
“Tell me,” Alastor utters quietly. “While you were gone, were you still there?”
Vox opens his mouth.
No answer comes.
The update completes. Systems stabilize. Vox’s performance metrics soar.
But somewhere deep in the architecture—beneath the name, beneath the polish—something has been left unaccounted for.
A knowing grin creeps up Alastor’s face. Then, as quietly as he arrived, he slinks back into the shadows of the office with a single, fluid step.
Vox is left blinking in his absence, heart racing, and acutely aware of the emptiness his counterpart had carved into the space between them.