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When, shortly into his time in hell, Valentino is approached by a flat-faced prince with a promising grin and even more promising words, he knows it’s just too good to be true.
“Now, I have seen plenty of your exploits,” says the TV-man, Vox, face flicking to one of his pornos. Oh, that is hot. Valentino’s mind is filled with ideas on how he can put that feature to use.“And I must say, I am- er, quite impressed.” Tough one, eh? Making him crack will certainly be fun. “So—” Clearing his throat, cyan blue blush, what a catch. “I would like to proposition you.”
Vox pushes away a pair of arms that has already reached to undo the buttons of his expensive suit—surely those deep pockets of his will be able to cover new ones, no?
“Not for sex,” he says. Playing to get, hmm? That’s alright. Valentino likes it that way. More fun breaking them down that way. “Well, not just for sex.” Alright. “I was thinking, we could be…”
For only a split-second, he looks away, spiral eyes flashing with fear that leaves Valentino ensnared. A coward at heart atop everything else? Oh, could this little prince be any more perfect? “...Partners?” He scratches at the back of his neck sheepishly as the silence stretches onward for one second (Valentino was internally contemplating whether to start out by taking off Voxxy’s clothes or his own). “I mean, in the business sense. It would be in your best interests-”
“I’ll gladly do both, amorcito,” Valentino says, picturing Voxxy’s naked body underneath that old suit.
Vox blinks.
“Amorcito?” he says slowly, like he’s trying to get a feel for the word. Not used to being referred to so affectionately, hmm?
“Oh, yes-”
“You speak that island language?”
…What?
“Amorcito,” Vox says, with the thickest Northern Pacific Accent he’s ever heard, pronouncing it a-mur-shee-do, and Valentino feels his face crumple and his dick go flaccid, which is an insane accomplishment, particularly considering the good looks of the man in front of him. Not much in the way of brains, though, apparently. “It’s a word in that island language, right? From the place with the tacos?”
“I’m- I’m from Florida!” Valentino says incredulously. Vox seems to realize how absolutely crazy he sounds, stiffening.
“I-I have nothing against it, of course,” elaborates Vox. “I love the island language! Here at VoxTech, we respect all minorities. All. Minorities.” He turns to a camera. “Trust us with your-”
“My dick is soft now,” Valentino moans (and not in the sexy way), sniffling a few for good measure. “This is all your fault.”
Vox winces at that.
“How… unprofessional,” he says. “Not that I expected anything else from your kind-”
“My kind?!”
Valentino watches the motions go through on Vox’s face as he attempts to come up with a way out of this.
“Pornstars,” he says. They both know that’s not what he meant.
Valentino stares at him long and hard, squinting through his glasses. This man does not have a single trace of his appearance as a sinner on Earth, but it has become very obvious that he was white—the kind where you could just hear the ‘h’.
But still, he is rather attractive, with promising assets and, er… assets, yeah, the money stuff too, or whatever, so Valentino will give him a chance regardless.
“Pull out your little contract, amorcito,” he says, emphasizing the nickname pointedly. And then, he reaches for his gun. “But don’t you ever fuckin’ say that shit again, or you’ll taste the other end of this damn-”
“Point taken,” Vox says, taking out his contract and starting what will hopefully be an entertaining partnership. “Now, er, sign here.”
Valentino nods, looking at the contract for a second hesitantly. Vox seems to get the wrong idea.
“Do you not know how to write in English?” he asks. “That’s okay. I can just-”
“That’s not the problem!”
Still, the contract is signed. Vox has potential, after all. It seems Valentino will just need to, ah, whip him into shape a little.
That does not happen. The years pass and their success spreads, and yet, little Voxxy is still letting his mouth run wild.
“Juan,” he says, pulling up some little goon’s profile, and though Valentino really couldn’t care less about the extra, it’s hard not to feel just a tad sympathetic about what he knows will happen first. “Ah. Hola, como estas?”
He says it like ‘Hoe-lah, Coh-moh es-tuhs?’, and Valentino facepalms. God, this is embarrassing… What a public disgrace.
“U-Uh… Yo estoy bien. ¿Cómo estás tú?” Replies poor Juan, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here right now. Valentino relates.
“...What?” he blinks a few times, before sighing. “You island people.”
Valentino’s eyes flick towards the employee profile—so mind-numbingly bright that even he can see, wow, that’s an accomplishment—and, no. He’s not from an island.
“Juanito is Spanish,” he says. Vox contemplates addressing that, before realizing there’s no response that makes him look good, and instead deciding to move on.
“Ahem,” he says. “Let’s talk about quarterly revenue-”
Vox looks down at the papers, initially trying to hide from Valentino's judgmental look but quickly taking genuine interest.
“We've got competition,” he says. Whirring typing sounds ensue, and then, his eyes widen. “From a girl?”
More tapping sounds ensue, and Vox’s eyes widen even further.
“And she's colored?”
“Voxxy, you can't say that.”
“Oh, is that another one of those problematic words now?” Vox says. “They're really cancelling everything, aren't they? Ah, those progressives, am I right?”
Everyone sort of laughs awkwardly, too afraid of pissing him off to say anything. Valentino isn’t, however, so he scowls.
“Voxxy, you told me you’d stop that shit!” he says.
“I’m not racist!” Vox says. “I love Mexico. They make great tacos.”
At that, at least, he has the decency to look ashamed of himself, staring down at his hands for a second before murmuring a mousy little “...sorry.”
Now that’s a rarity. Valentino nods, pleased enough with the sudden act of remorse to drop the matter for now.
“Let’s go speak to this girl, alright, amorcito?” he says, emphasizing the nickname again in hopes that it might just slightly clue Vox in on the accent—even slightly deter that thick Northern-Pacific accent. It will be fruitless, most likely, but it’s worth a shot.
“Yeah,” Vox agrees, lingering shame coloring his countenance. “Let’s go.”
The, ah—”colored girl”—has a name, and it’s Velvette. Up and coming overlord, with a wicked sharp grin and sharper wits. Sharper than Vox’s right now, for sure.
“You’re smart for a girl of your kind,” he says to her, an easy smile on his face, as if that wasn’t the most rude thing he could’ve said. “How refreshing to see! We think-”
“What. The bloody hell. Was that supposed to mean?” Velvette cuts him off, jabbing a long, manicured finger into his chest. Vox realizes he has just done it again and clears his throat rapidly and pointedly.
“Oh, it was a compliment!” he says, trying to laugh it off. “Y’know-”
“That—was the most condescending load of bullshit I’ve heard in years,” she says. “And I’m living in fucking hell.”
“Well-” Vox says. “You’re smart. You know, I’m not here to just chit-chat. So, I’ll get to the point.”
“Do you seriously think you can-”
“It would be in your best interests to join our team,” he says. “Think of what we can do. Together. We are-”
“And you expect me to take this offer after all the shit you just said?” Velvette says, raising an eyebrow. Vox, ever so unused to actually being called out in a serious manner, squirms in his seat.
“...All VoxTech products will advertise your brand free of charge,” he says in lieu of addressing this.
“Deal.” Her reply is instant, though she pauses. “But you’re going to need to get with the times. Right now, the fifties are calling, and they-” Her brow furrows. “You are from the fifties, aren’t you?”
It’s hardly the oldest era a sinner’s come from—Vox and Valentino are still considered on the younger end for overlords themselves, but to a more modern sinner like her, it must seem quite old. Vox’s fifties mentality is also quite blatant, compared to other overlords, who, ah, have some more… tact, shall he say.
Vox nods, launching into a plastic ramble filled with congratulations and vague ‘it’ll be nice to work with you’s and all sorts of phrases and conjectures that make it evident Vox is just talking to hear himself talk.
And that is how the Vees truly form.
Months later, with Velvette constantly letting Vox know exactly what she thinks of his mannerisms, he has finally gotten a sliver of tact on the matter. Barely anything, of course, but still something. Slightly more tolerable, Valentino will say.
…Until Alastor comes back, and it’s all he can talk about.
“That- That little bitch!” Vox screeches at a cartoon deer, the sleep deprivation seemingly having gotten to him at last. Valentino would perhaps feel a little bit of sympathy, maybe even offer to, ah, help him turn off his brain a little, except he wasn’t staying up working. He was staying up pacing around in circles angrily muttering about his nemesis. Of course. “I will obliterate you, Alastor, I swear-”
He sees Valentino’s unimpressed stare and seems to get the wrong idea.
“Not because he’s creole- I mean, partially of African-American descent,” he says. “VoxTech respects minorities and advocates for their rights! Trust us with your freedom,” and with that, he gestures to a (non-existent) camera, before fiddling with his hands. “I hate him because he’s insufferable. And he’s old-timey, and he sucks, and who even cares about radio anyway, and-”
“No one was saying that in the first place, you absolute moron,” Velvette says, throwing a beer bottle (that sadly misses) at Vox’s face. “Stop putting words in our mouths.”
And then, she moves to leave.
“I’m off to get more intel on that stuck up old hag,” she says, before adding derisively. “Carmilla.”
Oh no.
Valentino recognizes that tone of voice, and it is very, very dangerous. It’s the same tone of voice Voxxy uses to talk about Alastor—a sign that she is growing dangerously obsessed, teetering on the edge of spending sleepless nights over a supposed ‘rival’.
“You’ve been seeing Carmilla a lot, Velvette,” Vox says idly, finally calmed down enough from his hissy fit for ordinary speech.
Velvette snickers at that.
“It’s fun makin’ her squirm,” she says, huffing a derisive laugh, before adding, “that’s all.”
No one was questioning it. No one was questioning it, and yet, she still felt the need to clarify. That’s a very bad sign.
Vox looks at Valentino and back at Velvette, taking a few seconds to try and draw his own conclusions.
“Velvette. Darling,” he starts, folding his hands together nervously. “Do you… have anything you’d like to tell us?”
Vox’s darlings and dears usually come off as terribly chauvinistic, but it’s different this time—an edge of sincerity to his voice that leaves Valentino rather surprised. Like an old uncle trying to connect with his niece.
Velvette picks up on it as well, brows furrowing.
“What’re you on about now?” she huffs.
“You and Carmilla, um,” Vox seems to contemplate again before coming straight out with it. “Look. It’s okay if you’re a homosexual, Velvette. I’m not going to judge you for who you love.”
Velvette sputters like a dying engine for a second, and Vox seems to take this as a cue to continue his (surprisingly sincere) speech.
“I get it. It’s scary,” he says. “When someone asked me if I was a queer for the first time, I was terrified.” Valentino knows Vox is bi—they fuck on the regular, damnit—but hearing him speak about the struggles of a minority group with actual tact and firsthand experience is just too jarring to handle. This isn’t right. Where are the desperate attempts at pandering? The off-handed insults? “So, just know: It’s okay-”
“I don’t want to fuck Carmilla Carmine, damnit!” Velvette huffs, throwing her hands up in the air and marching off. “I’m leaving.”
Before exiting for good, though, she turns back, and says—”My being gay has nothing to do with it!”
With that, she leaves Vox and Valentino alone, off to partake in an obsessive rivalry of her own.
Hopefully this doesn’t get as bad as Vox’s…
Scratch any of Valentino's previous sentiments. There’s no way in hell anything could be as bad as Vox’s sheer obsessive delusion. Alastor leaves his mind completely fried and strips him down to his last brain cell with the most basic of taunts.
Hopefully, he pulls himself together during the rally.
Lucifer comes down unexpectedly, threatening and showing off his power for all to see. Vox responds in complete calm, swaying the people with ease.
“We can make hell great again!” he says. Velvette freezes for a second.
“Is he-” she says in a stage whisper. “Y’know-”
Valentino does not, in fact, know. What he does not, however, is that Vox starts mouthing off to the seraphim.
And he calls himself ‘fuhrer’.
What.
“He’s not even hiding it anymore, is he?” Velvette says, looking at the crowds in incredulity. Everyone else is too enthralled by his ‘bravery’ and ‘kindness’ to question that, thankfully. But oh, goodness, it’s going to be such a pain to handle publicity in the fallout.
“...Omega?” Velvette mutters to herself afterwards, as Vox continues singing. “He’s a furry?”
Valentino doesn’t know what that means.
Regardless. After that, they have a nice, long talk about the whole ordeal.
“Oh, you people—is freedom of speech not allowed anymore?” Vox huffs. “Am I not able to voice my truth without being cancelled?”
“You called yourself fuhrer,” says Valentino. Vox huffs.
“Furor,” he says. “Outbreak of public anger or excitement. Different thing. Plus, this is hell: who cares if I got a little bit—offensive?”
“Lots of people care,” says Velvette. “It’s bloody hell! Loads of people get stuck in here for a buncha reasons! Doesn’t mean they don’t hate Hitler!”
“Oh, calm down,” Vox says. “It’s not going to matter. No one cares about me saying I’m the public furor. Not like I’m going to get cancelled on television. Hah.”
As it turns out, Vox is, in fact, going to get cancelled on television. Despite owning all of it.
“Vox is literally Hitler?” come the headlines, printed in bold, large red letters. TV channels all over are talking about it.
“Told you,” grumbles Velvette, too annoyed by the prospective work of fixing the publicity damage to be smug.
Alastor laughs from where he sits tied to his chair.
“Goodness, Vincent—you really are your own worst enemy!” he says. “I should have known this would happen since that day you spewed at me all those colorful expletives! You certainly do like using a certain word deriding colored people...”
Vox did what now…?
“Poor thing—your self-restraint really is lacking! Why, you really are quite the heavy dead weight for your companions to carry,” Alastor drones on. Vox jumps to retort—not that Val pays it any mind, too focused on the factoid he just learned. What does that—
Whatever. For now, they’re going to have to give Vox some sort of PR Training.
Charlie Morningstar stares at the newspaper in front of her in shock. Vox’s plans were foiled? That easy, huh? Just one slip-up, and the media turned against him?
Despite how awful everything’s been going so far, there might just be some hope after all.