Chapter Text
The meeting room for the Overlords is a place that is… surprisingly corporate… you’re still not over that little detail no matter how many meetings you attend. When you pictured Hell, boardrooms weren’t a part of the decor. The whole thing was so drab, lifeless… you’d have preferred the stalagmites and pits of fire- at least that would have had pizzazz! Predictable, yes, but this here, it’s like nobody’s even trying!
You duck off the elevator with a little sigh as you’re met with more brutalist architecture. Seriously, would it kill Zestiel to get some art in here? Real, genuine art. Not- oh you don’t know- cave paintings or advertisements… or Satan forbid that Spindly Johnny of a spider demon outs himself as a lover of impressionism… now that would be truly Hellish…
You shake the thoughts away, trying not to waste time critiquing the dreadful interior decorating as you glide into the meeting room. Instead, you bound up and onto the currently nearly empty conference table with your hare’s legs, palms to the lacquered wood, wings low on your hips extended slightly for balance and speed.
Using the momentum to slide promptly into Rosie’s usual chair with all the grace befitting an Overlord- self confident and powerful, despite your form- you bow slightly to your impending conversation partner. Leaning back in the chair, you throw your long feet upon the smooth table, crossing one of your digitigrade knees over the other to give the impression of ease.
Alastor raises an eyebrow at you, golden grin never wavering when he turns his head to stare at you- and all of a sudden, predictably, under his gaze you feel like the prey animal you look like. The long velvety ears, big feet and hands in the shape of paws, bigger eyes with comically long lashes- a fucking tail. A cute, little wiggly tail of a hare to go with the whiskers and the little nose that’s almost heart-shaped…
“If it isn’t the- what are you again? A… jackrabbit? Ah, well… that’s neither here nor there…” Alastor tuts, the latent static interwoven in his tone makes your nose twitch; Then he continues to speak, sickly saccharine in a way that makes your fur raise slightly. “To what do I owe the pleasure, my dear?”
Hare was such a boring word, that’s what you thought, even though it was an accurate description for your sinner form. You deserved a better moniker, a flashier, snappier name for those who would underestimate you to sneer and scoff at… actually, what surprises you more is that Alastor bothered to get it right and not just hop straight to bunny. That certainly wasn’t why a great deal of demons cowered at his feet, but you’ve gotta say that the lack of cheap shots punted in your direction is a nice change of pace.
With a lazy flourish you sweep your hand out in front of you from your hip to in front of you. A practiced, easy motion- like a salute of some kind. However, unlike any other gesture, a package, wrapped in thin brown paper and tied together with twine, appears in your paws sometime between the start and end of the motion.
You can’t change what you look like- you’re all flesh and blood and fur and some feathers- but what you can do is use it as a smokescreen while you clamber your way to higher ground. So, you ignore the warning bells- some ingrained instinct telling you to flee- and offer Alastor a grin to match his own, fangs and all.
“There’s a delay in the usual supply line- turf war, somesuch nonsense. I won’t bore you with the details, but never you fear- depleting my personal stash is a small price to pay for you to receive your special blend in a timely manner. As promised.”
You set the package gently upon the table and press it forward with one claw. It pricks through the thin paper ever so slightly- enough that the floral, herbal scent reaches your nose and his.
“Ah. How… forward thinking.” The static ebbs slightly, and your raised hackles settle down with it- although his fingernails are drumming on the edge of the table like the ticking of a clock. A warning that your time is dwindling steadily. “It would be quite impolite of me to accept such a package at your expense without offering reco-”
“Quite a gentleman you are, but no- don’t trouble yourself on my account. This is just to tide you over the few days it’ll take to iron out the kinks, so to speak.” Your words are hasty even as you try to wave him off as politely as possible, one foot starting to tap against the air to music that is not present in the room.
The hissing whisper of the radio crescendos in something so high that it makes you cringe, press your back closer to the chair- sensitive ears protesting.
All at once, and just as suddenly as before, his voice dips into what is almost a purr. Alastor leans closer to you and says, impossibly bright for a man of the shadows, “I don’t follow.”
You uncross your legs and slide them underneath you- sitting like a rabbit ready to sprint in preparation to slip into your usual seat on the other end of the table. The kiddie pool part of the table, in other words. Whereas now you’re floundering without a lifejacket to get out of the deep end, hoping to make it out before you make more enemies than friends.
Fear was a very human emotion and it sure as Hell told you that Alastor- the big bad on the Overlord scene that you were just breaking into the real meat of these days- was someone you didn’t want as your enemy… and possibly not as a friend, either.
Not much different than from when you were alive, with all this pomp and circumstance- dangerous people aplenty and power ripe for the taking. If your life as a magnificent thief, an artist- not just of the paint and brush but of confidence schemes, of the eleventh hour escape, of personas- had taught you anything, it was how to thrive in the no man’s land between friend, foe and expendable accomplice.
As such, you’d met plenty of men like Alastor. You practically grew up with them. Were raised by them, protected by them, ran with them- they’re all you’ve ever known. All charm and snake oil, with blood under fingernails and hunger etched into the lines underneath their eyes. Gamblers, the type that are always thinking they have the only ace up their sleeve, one and all.
You almost have to like Alastor on principle, with all that in mind.
Still, you know well enough to stay out of their way and on their good side- however marginal either of those lanes were. You were a skinny thing, you figure you’ll manage to toe the line.
“I don’t like tea.” Is what you settle on responding to him with, though. Mostly because it’s the truth and you don’t suspect he’s fond of lies.
Although, in hindsight, you do hope this is not a punishable offense, considering you are- insofar- the most reliable acquirer of the particular blend of leaves and such he favors. If not the only, considering the criteria to grow the main ingredient is excessively niche and picky, quite like the man who drinks it almost exclusively; You keep a minor amount on hand in case of emergencies. Events such as supply line troubles, like you’d said.
It just wouldn’t do to piss off the Radio Demon, even accidentally. You liked your head and your organs where they were inside your very easily underestimated sinner form. Although surely your soft fur would make a great throw rug, perhaps a pillow- but no, no, you liked being free as a bird with the wings to match. Your soul too, rotten though it was, it wasn’t something you were going to relinquish again…
Alastor tilts his head slightly, inquiring further without having to say a damn word.
You grit your fangs, relenting with a twitch of one of your long ears. It’s fairly obvious what he wants, you know he wants to hear you say it. Say that you’re wary of him, that you’re afraid. Can anyone blame you? You might be known for your little disappearing acts, but that’s nothing compared to the vanishings that Alastor’s got on his resume.
You are afraid of him! Undoubtedly and without question!
He is very much correct in that assumption… but then… you’ve a fearful personality flaw. Always have, always will- forevermore, maybe, considering you’ve been crammed unceremoniously into the guise of a jackrabbit-thing by fate’s decree. Fate’s always had a damn good sense of humor… as far as you’ve ever experienced… At least you were as quick on your feet in death as you were in life…
“I’m simply… not interested in being your next co-host. If you catch my drift. Sir.”
“Oh no, no, I would ne- well. I might.” His grin never wavers, bright and yellow as the harvest moon and growing wider still when he tweaks your long ear with a flickering tendril of shadow. “But thank you all the same for being so… hm. Aware of your customer’s needs.”
Rosie laughs from your other side, behind your turned back, all but kicking her feet with delight as she slides into the vacant seat next to you. You stole her seat- temporarily, you had hoped- just to complete the transaction but now it appears you’ll be stuck between the pair of them. Thick as thieves these two cannibals were and despite being a passable- no, not passable, a very, very good thief- yourself, you have no interest in becoming the third wheel, either.
“Isn’t she just darling? Cute enough to eat, I’ve told you before, Al.” Rosie pinches your cheek between her thumb and forefinger. You let her.
In part because what the Hell were you going to do about it? She was an older, more powerful Overlord than you. Not to mention that Rosie’s meager allyship to you was synergy- and boy, did you love synergy. Just take a look at the laundry list of hobbies you had picked up over the years- even the most innocuous sounding could be turned on a dime to suit a… less lawful purpose.
You scoff sharply, maneuvering around the cold fear that skitters down your spine as though it were a physical thing to avoid and offer a playful grin that hardly even trembles at the edges.
“Nice to see you too, Miss Rosie, but we’ve been over this. You wouldn’t want to eat me, ma’am. I mean, look at me-” You pause to gesture to your body, “I’m all sinew, muscle and bones. Hardly a lick of fat. Stringy, you know? I’d just get caught in your teeth.”
Rosie laughs some more, which does nothing to settle your nerves. Neither does the way her cool palm smooths against your fur- her claws catching ever so slightly. You don’t want to be between them anymore but the room’s already begun to fill out, meeting’s almost ready to get started- “I’ll let you have your seat back, Miss Ros-”
“No, no. You stay right there. Why don’t you, darling? Maybe you could learn a thing or two from this side of the table.” Rosie continues to stroke your head like you’re the class pet rather than a person, and well- you allow her to. “Hm, what do you think, Alastor? I think she has quite a bit of potential.”
Alastor’s rattling hum of a chuckle from behind you reaches your twitching ears and his non-agreement does little to settle your nerves and neither does Husker’s wandering golden gaze locking onto you like a magnet as he enters. The way he tilts his head, flicks his ear at you with narrowed eyes- you know pity when you see it and refuse to be party to such a thing.
Not willing to give either of them any more ground than has already been soundly taken, with your dignity, perhaps, suffering the most, you simply nod politely in the direction of Rosie. Smiling tightening you perk your ears up, drop wings down. Calm, cool, collected, comfortable.
You were going to be up in the big leagues one of these days, might as well get used to it sooner rather than later.
Husker gives a rough edged little sigh, flopping into his usual spot- gold cuffs sparkling in the light as he drums his claws against the table idly.
He’s disappointed in you, that much you realize. You’ve long since been clued into his little ticks, such is your friendship, of a kind, with Husker- or perhaps it’s merely history, a sunk cost fallacy’s worth of history. Even if synergy was the name of the game when it came to you two- magicians, swindlers, and hedonists both- you had to stand on your own two feet every now and again- especially now- or you never would.
Husker’ll understand, is what you think, I’ll get through this meeting and butter him up with a specialty drink or ten from way back when and then-
Out of the corner of your eye you catch the glare of the last of the arriving overlords, the “Media” specialist… Vox. Stuck at the far end of the table for the time being but inching closer and closer with each meeting that passes- or at least the ones he personally attends.That’s not what he seems to notice immediately. No, no, due to your proximity to Alastor, you’re sure, what he’s noticing is that you’re not down there with the rest of ‘em and instead...
Ah- well. Fuck. There went your nice, neat little plot. Drop Alastor’s fucking tea in his lap and abscond before your next target saw- or was told by a not-so-little moth-shaped rat- that you were cavorting with his self-proclaimed nemesis…
Cavorting sounds like so much fun until your dance partner is a full blown psychopath- you know that pitfall first hand.
Ever since the up and coming Media Overlord had tied the metaphorical knot with the film industry’s current darling, Valentino, Vox’s been too busy making moves to drop into the usual meetings. Big and scary moves that are surely time consuming- but hey, lucky for you, you weren’t exactly in the market of creation, per se, rather acquisitions; As it turns out- lucky for him- you had something specific you wanted to acquire with Vox’s expertise.
That said… you had been hoping- expecting, rather- Valentino to attend in his stead… apparently you’re not as lucky as you’d hope considering you have a pair of jackrabbit’s feet.
You’re still too new to the scene to get away with cutting anyone off for petty reasons, given you relied on rapport for a good chunk of your power, and Vox knows that… but surely, what he doesn't know- what a lot of people don’t seem to think- is that one of these days? Oh. One of these days you’re going to have your finger on the fucking pulse of the market where you won’t even have to freeze anyone out- all it’ll take is a little pressure, a slower trickle, and they’ll fall on their knees.
The thing you’ve learned from life- from death, too, in a way- is that the right threat is just as good as the follow through. Oftentimes the threat is the better option. You don’t have to reveal any cards, let people know what you are and are not capable of or willing to do… Always keep them guessing.
It’s the human condition to fear the unknown, after all.
…Therein lies the problem. Your new problem, actually. The problem you’ve tripped into as though you’re still as green as the day you died. The implication of a somehow until now unknown relationship between yourself and the Radio Demon that you’re unintentionally projecting by borrowing Rosie’s seat… with hands all over your soft little ears. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? You shouldn’t have sat down in the first place… fuck…
You don’t know which is the rock and which is the hard place, Vox’s withering glare pointing at you like a damn spotlight or the pair of cannibals on either side of you who can’t keep their hands off your, apparently, darling velvet ears… but you suppose you’re going to find out very, very soon…
“Wait, wait, wait-!”
You catch Vox by the sleeve, and if that wasn’t already too audacious- even between fledgling Overlords occupying just about the same level of power- you’re quick to move in front of him in a swirl of glittering silver smoke before reappearing, fully formed.
Vox could zap out of here and be done with it, but he almost wants to hear your proposition just so he can turn it down. Like he’s an idiot that’s going to get sucked into whatever plot Alastor’s cooking up with his new bunny sidekick… A deer and a bunny, absolutely fucking perfect… Like seriously? What the Hell? Since the whole radio and video thing wasn’t to his tastes, the radio demon decides to go with the classic, obvious, woodland motif? Fuck that, screw him-
Maybe you’ve just got not one clue in your cute little head about ol’ Al. Maybe you’re just as naive as he was. Dazzled by Alastor’s competence and charm, but fuck that. If you were too stupid to figure it out for yourself- like he had been, so fucking stupid- before Alastor laughed in your face or tore you apart… then you deserved whatever you got.
Now though, you’re looking at him and only him- long pointed ears perked straight up, flat feet forced up onto tip toes to even reach eye level with his chest but it only takes you a moment to become unsatisfied with that. Apparently being looked down on wasn’t good enough for you because you’re quick to lift up from the ground by the wings at your hips and hover at eye level, the furthest edges of your flight feathers just barely touching him with each flap. Your paws reach out to steady yourself on the front of his turtleneck- he takes a step back- you tilt forward slightly, off balance but you spin it as the intent to follow him.
“C’mon, let’s help each other, Vox-”
“Yeah. Right… Help eachother.” He shoulders you out of the way in a sharp, heavy movement- you counterbalance with a flourish, a flash of smoke and you’re back on the ground- in his path- tapping your foot on the ground like you’re the one who should be annoyed.
“You want to help? Get out of my way and give that stupid deer my regards.”
“Look- I’m a business woman… rabb- hare… A busin- eh..? Now, you just wait a second-” You rattle through a half-thought pitch but the sudden personal vitriol of his tone sets you straight for moments- your long, velvet ears perk up sharply and swivel towards him like satellite dishes latching onto a signal. “The deer is a paying customer. That’s all.”
Vox ignores you still, petulant- a few steps ahead of you, nearer still to an outlet he can slip through and be done with it- with you. You don’t shut your trap for even a minute, unperturbed and unshaken-
“And he’s a customer with a penchant for dragging sinners- even the ones like us- through the ringer. And I don’t know about you, boss, but if I’m going to suffer eternal torture-” You say, to which Vox raises a thin digital eyebrow when he allows you catch up, to block his path again. You lower your voice, conspiratorially, “-for the sake of my pride… I’d prefer it not be at the hands of some guy. It’s gotta be someone spectacular, you know?”
Vox’s pixelated gaze drifts over you, from the tips of your hare’s ears to the curve of your fuzzy digitigrade legs, to your fidgeting wings at your hips and your large jackrabbit’s feet. Cute, admittedly- in the way most fragile, skittish little prey animals happened to be- but he wasn’t falling for whatever Alastor was up to. Not for a second.
“Make an appointment.” He couldn’t sound more disinterested if he actually put effort into it.
You, meanwhile, know damn well that appointment is going to get lost in the shuffle, never replied to- never answered. He’s going to freeze you out under the guise of corporate niceties… Christ alive, you do you hate it.
“Yeah? And then what, boss?” You thump your foot against the linoleum tile, plant it there to keep it from tapping.
A glitch travels across his screen, the boxy, heavy shape of his head tilting precariously to the side for a split second. When he rights himself, tilts it down to look you in the eye, you watch a spark of color in the otherwise warm grey nothingness disturb his animated eyes and pointy teal toothed grin quite noticeably.
“And then we’ll talk…” Static flickers across his shoulders, darts between his ramrod straight antennae- a stray spark seems to reach out to flick you on your cute little jackrabbit’s nose. Your head rears back at the intrusion, telling yourself that it was surely a coincidence and not a pointed tease. “...in a more private setting.”
With that, he takes a few steps past you- near enough that he can zap away into one of the security cameras at the far end of the hall near the elevator and leaves you standing alone in the hallway of what should be neutral territory.
Despite what it should be, neutral, you cannot help but think it is some bastard child of a mine field and a no man’s land. Not literally prone to violence but a delicate place where rapport and power and mind games were just as hard and dangerous to navigate as physical altercations.
Despite not believing him for a second, you set up an appointment. As a courtesy. Just to see what happened, to be able to say you tried… Just as you predicted, the appointment time that was confirmed comes and goes- and you? You don’t get to talk, not to Vox, at least. The poor assistant that had to deal with all the unwanted applications and the two bit power grabbers begging to get a piece of one of the premier up and comers? You get to talk to them. Poor dear. You let them off the hook- they’re not at fault, you know that much- but you can’t help yourself from spinning a lark about having a nice, cozy contract on standby for them. You know, if they ever want a change of pace…
Unlike yourself, Vox and company loudly and proudly advertised exactly where they were at all times. As though they were untouchable. Ha. Well, the one good thing about their base of operations was that there was nothing neutral about it.
Still… that information is of little use to you as you alone are not tough enough alone to act as outraged as you feel. The likelihood of starting an unnecessarily destructive turf war in the process does not fill you with joy and whimsy…
However, Vox would soon learn that even when it seems that you’re out of options, you’ve always got a trick or two up your sleeve to spare…
“The fuck are you? Who- what- are you supposed to be?” Valentino, the moth demon- whose name you do know even though you often wished you didn’t- adjusts his heart-shaped glasses. Pushes them up onto his flat forehead and then back down over his eyes, as though he cannot believe what he’s seeing standing before him with or without them.
Finally, Valentino says, matter-of-factly, “You look like a playboy bunny on fuckin’ bathsalts.”
“That’s-”
You’re caught a little off guard, barking with startled laughter- loud and obnoxious- as you think a little harder about that… insult? Would it be an insult from the guy who makes pornos or a roundabout compliment?
Valentino joins in with a snicker dripping with mocking while Vox plants his entire palm over his screen. His palm covers nothing of substance with the fact that he’s cursed with a crt tv box instead of a normal head. Fate had a damn sharp sense of humor, this you know from experience, but you’re left wondering absently what exactly the joke is when it comes to Vox… or Valentino for that matter… but you had little love for the moth demon generally speaking and even less interest in what he got up to while alive.
Vox though? Different game entirely. Not only did you simply like him better- a whim, you were allowed to have those nowadays- but his field of expertise was of singular and specific use to you right in this moment… which made him infinitely more worth coveting. Now if only you could make him see the same in you…
“I’ve- honestly- never heard that one before… and we’re in Hell.” You clap your paws together in a slow, mocking gesture- although the sound is muffled and soft, “Gold star for your originality, pal… although I suppose you already have enough gold to go around…”
Valentino opens and closes his mouth, the gold tooth flickering in the light- smoke trickling uselessly from the corners before his expression settles into a half-curious, half-predatory smile.
“And what does the conejita want? Hm? A corner of the spotlight to call her own?”
You cluck your tongue, feeling your tail flicking in two sharp arcs- left and right and back again- but thankfully, your wings hide it from Vox and Valentino’s. “No, we do not. Much to your disappointment, I’m sure, Valentino… but we are not here for an audition, photoshoot, side hustle, or a day job… so if I could just t-”
“We?” Vox peers around you and lowers his gaze as though you’ve brought a companion tinier than you. As far as he can tell you’re all alone here, where you have no damn business being, making stupid commentary that Valentino seems to find amusing but Vox certainly doesn’t…
Of all the things that could’ve happened today-
“Ah. Right, right. Where are my manners?” You twirl one of your paws in the air and snap your fingers- the manifestation of a soul contract’s thread alights from your paw in brilliant silvery threads that are extremely mirror-like. These tendrils are painfully delicate seeming when they weave themselves together into a very obvious chain.
When you give it a pointed yank towards you, though, the chain snaps taut with a click and holds strong in spite of everything.
“Kels, what’s taking you so long?” You make a little huff- almost amused, “Oh, okay, I get it- quit harassing the actors, you dog!”
The screaming and howling echoing faintly behind you subsides entirely, and the pair of Overlords realize that raucous noise wasn’t par for the usual studio madness but something much more… unique- also your fault, obviously- but unique nonetheless.
You press the side of your free paw to the side of your mouth and lean closer to the pair of Overlords to say, conspiratorially and in a mock-stage whisper that’s anything but quiet, “My pal here, he loves- well, anything pretty that moves… and quite a few things that are neither pretty and also don’t move… Can’t take them anywhere, can we, eh, Vox?”
Valentino squeaks at the not even thinly veiled insult but well- okay. Vox isn’t interested in defending Valentino’s non-existent honor; Not to mention you’re absolutely and entirely right. Briefly, Vox fights against letting you win even a tiny victory in seeing him smirk at your jab- and that little smirk does seriously threaten to pull the irritated scowl off his screen for a few moments.
That is before a large shadow suddenly falls over your back as you continue to chatter away without a care, the subtle glow of the handcuff’s chain the only thing illuminating your silky fur and wickedly wide grin. Any type of smile, cruel or unusual, is lost in the shocked, almost jaw-dropped pair of expressions that Valentino and Vox share.
It is at that moment Valentino and Vox are brought face to face with a hulking, snarling bull-like Sinner- ivory horns and all, eyes blazing red and with short fur and skin to match. As tall as Valentino- more if the Sinner wasn’t bent at the waist- and more than twice his width even without taking into account the fucking horns. Vox is left wondering how it got through the f-
Quickly scrolling through the camera feeds at the entrance shows a wreckage of glass and twisted metal where the doors used to be. Great.
“As you can see, I have to keep him on a short leash or else… well, I suppose I won’t bore you with the details…” You flutter your long eyelashes at him with a little chuckle, big eyes half-closed in a way that would be sultry if every action up until now hadn’t been some kind of threat. “Not today, at least.”
When Vox re-focuses his attention his eyes drift to the silver pair of handcuffs that represent your control over the sinner soul’s. They’re seemingly pierced through the sinner’s broad, flat nose- dangling alongside a thick golden ring, ringing faintly like a bell when the sinner inhales and exhales.
It sure does make that chain look all the more dainty by comparison to the beast they were attached to… but he gets the sense that’s a misdirection. A metaphor so fascinatingly on the nose- literally, ha!- that hints at the fact, and really Vox is only only making an off the cuff guess here- that you’re far stronger than you look by a worryingly decent margin.
Vox had heard about your penchant bodyguards, of course- a little inconsequential thing like you, it made sense to always have someone bigger in your shadow. They always seemed to be your flavor of the week in the same style as Valentino’s personal favorite sluts. That’s how he’d interpreted that particular rumor about the illusive and eccentric Black Market marketeer and her interchangeable shadows- but this guy…? Where the Hell would you have even kept him not to have that little tidbit cross into the gossip circle…?
Vox knows for certain he would’ve remembered headlines with some entirely and painfully unoriginal approximation of “Bull in a China Shop” splattered all over them.
All it takes is a subtle wave of your hand- and Vox notices it’s not the one that was holding the chain- before the sinner bowing down even lower so that his head behind you is level with your shoulder, nearly chin to ground. A pose that makes it seem as though he was prepared to drive forward and trample all in his path as soon as you give the signal- what would that signal be? Who the hell knew with you. There’s no doubt that this sinner would, absolutely without question, throw some of his time away at your word but- Well, Vox isn’t sure that the beast couldn’t also take one of them down with him- so… What the actual fuck…?
A powerplay? A threat? In the heart of his territory? Or well- okay not exactly the heart. Near enough to the heart to be worrisome considering how closely he worked with Valentino! Just who the fuck did you think you were and what could you possibly want with the porn industry- it’s not like anything about it had anything to do with the subterfuge or subtleties you were known for employing. Were you branching out and to what end could you-?
As though reading his very thoughts- and that was a scary prospect- you say with a carefully neutral air, patting your pal’s nose sweetly, “Down boy, I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to… talk to the nice media Overlord for a bit.”
Your eyes don’t waver nor does your smile, although the hint of sarcasm stings. They don’t move when you dismiss the manifestation of chains with a snap of your fingers. They don’t dart to Valentino when you speak. You just stare at him, with your big, sly eyes.
Vox feels weak in the knees for a split second, sparkling static over taking his screen before he shakes it away violently.
Ah. Okay. You had no interest in Valentino or his business, you were here for him.
Right. Right, of course. Of course you were here for him! For Vox! Why wouldn’t you be? Vox knew he had all the cards and you had nothing but posturing and a couple of really- er- extremely- good supply lines, showmanship and insofar, a completely passable head for business. You were an Overlord, after all- a little fish but you were clearly looking to get bigger. The how was what worried Vox, though. You’d popped into the scene so suddenly, so recently as far as anyone knew, although he had the sneaking suspicion, now, that your sudden appearance wasn’t all that sudden.
So that’s great, good- he’ll have you right where he wants you in no time… but where does he want you, exactly…? He… isn’t sure but what he does know for sure is that you can’t be trusted. Not even a tiny bit… but that still begged the question of how he could get some use out of you. Of course, in the meantime while he figures it out he’s just going to have to tuck that audio recording file away somewhere private first and-
Vox clears his throat, antenna pinging against each other as he tries to be so very casual when he crosses his arms, “So what’s my building, huh? Collateral damage?”
There’s a mild sheepishness in your languid shrug, you lean your elbow on the broad nose of your… pet body guard…? Tipping your head into your palm immediately after as you twirl your free hand in the air with idle care.
“I’ll foot the bill for that unfortunate… occurrence… and for your time. Gladly.”
“The… the bull…” Valentino says, mouth opening and closing before he bends down and hisses, as though your ears aren’t two feet tall and large enough to hear him, “Voxxy… Vox. I want him. I want him. Right. Now.”
Vox doesn’t have time to answer, to deny the troublesome request especially when he doesn’t want nor need you involved and- he watches you tap your significantly smaller paw against the side of your body guard’s snout. His red eyes roll to look at you without turning away being pointed directly at Valentino- whose eyes are wide and intensely interested in your… pet.
“You want to do a couple clickies, Kels? For the Hell of it, one might say?”
“Are you making fun of-” Vox glitches faintly. Your tone always seems to sound faintly teasing, and all your insults had a fair bit of plausible deniability attached like a ball and chain.
“Not particularly.” The golden ring upon your bull’s nose rattles as he exhales sharply, voice coming out so low and so impossibly deep that even the high ceilings seem to shake with the tenor of it- Vox freezes inadvertently.
“Ah, well. Damn. No luck there, boss.” A soft chuckle that’s almost- almost- disappointed comes out of you before you smooth out your expression to that haughty little smirk again.
Before you move to speak again- before anyone can- you snap your fingers and a silver coin appears from thin air. Literally, thin air. Vox cannot tell where you pulled it from- if it was some trick or actual magic was anyone’s guess. Both existed in Hell so who knew, really?
Starting to idly roll it over your knuckles as you speak it catches the gaudy lights of Valentino’s studio with each turn. Ironically, it draws Valentino’s attention away from your body guard and from the conversation almost entirely.
“So… Vox. You haven’t been returning my calls.”
Valentino snorts lowly with what might be disdain but is dazzled by the rhythmic pulse of the coin reflecting lights that he stills his insanely long tongue from speaking his thoughts aloud. For once.
“I’m a… busy man.”
“And I’m a busy woman, but I didn’t come here just to natter away my five minutes, per se. I came here to make an offer.”
“What kind of offer, I already-”
“You’re right, I was a little over zealous before. A bit too handsy, we hardly know each other. Let me make it up to you and start with a… soft launch? That’s what it’s called now…? Right? Eh… or consider it an apology, if you must.”
Vox’s speakers stutter to respond because if you considered before over zealous, he has no fucking clue what to consider this. You’re already barreling down to the conclusion of your pitch.
“Anyways, semantics… This is an opportunity to prove myself trustworthy to you and you’ll get something you want out of it. How’s that sound? Good right?” You begin, saccharine sweet with an edge that reaches out to bite him. Your fangs- and oh yeah, yep! You definitely have what looks like snake’s fangs in that loud, snide mouth of yours- shine when you smile, “So, let’s play a game.”
“I’m not here to play games.” Vox bites out with a disbelieving scoff, claws tightly wound against his forearms. You’re going to run him in circles and leave him- and Voxtek- high and dry, he just fucking knows you will, just like Ala-
“Well you’re clearly not here for business either since you keep blowing me off.” You snap, tapping the flat sole of your hare’s foot against the tile- playfulness gone, replaced with something bordering on professionalism. “You know, me, supplier of everything a sinner could desire to make their dreams and nightmares come true?”
“You’re pushing your luck, bunny. You’re not so hot shit and exclusive yet that I can’t switch my supply lines to someone who has the common decency to go through the proper fucking channels.”
That Vox had deliberately ignored your attempts to go through the proper channels was neither here nor there to him. You could’ve made the attempt more than once. It was about respect- of which you clearly had none.
“No? Really?” Your eyes go round and mockingly cute before they roll with petulance, flatten out to a squint. “Then I suppose this is your official cancellation for those extremely special delicate- extremely rare- bits and bobs? Unfortunately, I do have to warn that the resale value for something from Envy far surpasses my late cancellation fee. You don’t mind right? It’s not like they were custom made for-”
The implied “for you.” hangs in the air between you both. Vox rears back at the implication, startled.
“When did you- How would you…-?”
The particular specs you must be referring to were custom made and ordered long before the last Overlord meeting… waiting on them was a bitch, but given the rarity that was a necessary evil. More importantly was the fact you shouldn’t even know about them.
“Oh please… Acquiring and moving unique and or specialty items, sometimes by underhanded means, is kind of the thesis statement of my business’ entire model.” You roll your eyes at him again, drumming your fingers against Kels’ nose as though he were a coffee table. “Tsk. You should fire your supplier if he- and I won’t accuse someone I don’t know personally of lying- but if he conveniently left that little tidbit out of your exchange…”
You tap your chin after a moment, “Actually… better yet… you can give me their name. I’ll take him under my wing and off your hands- for a finder’s fee, of course. Wouldn’t want you to feel cheated.“
Vox can’t deny that you’re… efficient. Perhaps you were only as efficient as you are batshit insane, but efficient nonetheless, and unlike your predecessor- whom Vox had the misfortune of having to work with for his rare parts previously- you seem willing… no, not just willing, obsessed with the idea of working with him.
The memory of you chattering away with that stupid deer motherf- sours the excitement of being wanted almost immediately, and any potential your partnership could offer as well. It’s a warning and reminder all at once.
“Just- just get to the point, already.”
“I already got to the point. You’re just tip-toeing around it like it’s going to bite you.” You wave off his protests and threats with the same hand, “Just- All I’m asking for is that you let me show you what I can do for you, not just tell you what you can do for me. Yeah? Mutually beneficial transaction, symbiotic. Good deal for you, too, but I’m biased.”
“How? How do you expect to show me?”
“Tell me something you want, Vox. Something tangible. No tricks, I swear on my own grave- but other than that, anything at all, and I’ll get it for you by the end of the week.”
You stop rolling the coin over your knuckles, hold it between your thumb and pointer finger, tilting it so that his left eye reflects in the pristine mirror-light surface.
“The. Bull.” Valentino tears himself away from the distraction, grips him insistantly by the shoulders, almost shaking with excitement.
Vox is absolutely not asking for the fucking bull- Kels. You’d called him Kels like it was some yappy demonic terrier and not three or four times your height and built like a brick shit house. Damn the leash you had on him must be tight as all Hell. Maybe-
He sure as Hell wasn’t asking for the bull, considering he gets the sense you were trying to manipulate the situation in favor of that particular outcome. An easy ask for you, clearly.
Instead he asks for something you’ll either never be able to get your paws on and live, or will prove you’re a no good filthy fucking spy hellbent on taking him and Voxtek down out of spite and spite alone. There are no friends in Hell and he sure as fuck doesn’t have any reason to believe you think any differently…
But-
What if-
“That fucking de- I mean- Alastor’s pocketwatch. Specifically.”
Your left eye twitches, ears wobble slightly and for perhaps the first time he’s ever been witness to- for a split second what he says makes you genuinely off balance. Genuinely affected by the words he speaks. Vox knows well you take pride in being unflappable- this whole stunt was just another example, but it’s also true that he can tell that this one time… this one time you’re not just hearing him and reacting. No, no, you sway a little as if he’s physically reached out and pushed you- you actually feel the threat. Finally.
Hm. He didn’t expect that to rattle you- and maybe it’s still a game-
Or maybe you’re telling the truth. That Alastor holds no sway over your actions and if you’re telling the truth about that he's just asked for the impossible. Not just for you to acquire it in the first place- Vox is under the impression that you’re a good thief, but you couldn’t pay him to think you were good enough to fool Alastor. This ask? It forces you to irrevocably, unequivocally choose a side. Vox’s side… Preferably… if in fact, you were on any side at all and not just dead and powerless- the easiest and most beneficial of the options available to him. Obviously.
Valentino groans, cussing and complaining in a string of petulant Spanish that Vox can’t be bothered to guess at. Your sly eyes, however, light up almost immediately with recognition, you smother a snicker- your whiskers twitch, ears perk. Underneath your paw, Kels snorts, coal black smoke crackling with veins of liquid fire spiral and dissipating from his exhale.
“Cut it out, Val. You don’t even like fucking beef. All your favorites have always been skinny bitches- like skin and fuckin’ bones.” Vox turns and tosses the comment over his shoulder- not least of all because he hates seeing Valentino fawn over someone who is not him. Your muffled laughter draws his eyes back.
The coin is back when he turns his screen to face you again, you’re smiling still- all teeth. All collected and properly laissez-faire again when you say, voice spun in teasing silkiness, “You’re really hung up on him, eh? Alastor? I heard-”
“EXCUSE ME?” The lights flicker ominously, your mismatched red eyes do not waver and neither does your knowing smirk.
From the lounge a few paces behind Vox, Valentino starts to cackle- claps his hands in cruel delight. “Now you’ve gone and done it, bunny.”
You lift your hands in surrender while balancing on one leg- and for a moment Vox’s fury is consumed by his confusion over the mannerism. Why exactly were you so damn weird and how were you managing to dominate anything- the sinner next to you or the black market or other overlords- while being so ridiculously quirky and relishing in that unpredictability?
The confusion and exasperation lingers until Kels slides his gigantic, meaty fucking palm into the tiny shadow of your fuzzy foot and you step onto his palm with easy, untamable confidence.
Both of your paws migrate from hovering in the air to press against your chest, laced together right above your tits poking out of your ridiculously showy outfit. It’d be where your heart was too, he supposed, if Vox was convinced you still had one, and he isn’t. Nobody in Hell should, least of all him or you. That’s for damn sure.
“Hey, hey, relax, boss. I was just confirming-” You tilt your head to the side a little, ear drooping as though you’ve just heard something quite interesting… “Really, don’t sweat it. I’m not one to judge. How could I? My ex-... er… lover plotted my demise for upwards of twenty years… so I’m fairly familiar with the inability to move on.”
Vox is not unaware of the fact that you’ve unsubtly placed him in the role of the murderous and obviously jilted lover- and he-
“In any case… I’ll be back before you can miss me, trinket in hand- er. Paw.” Your feathered wings flutter as they stretch out with a dramatic flair, only to fold neatly behind you. “Listen, I’ll have it.”
“See that it is…” Vox says, incredulously- sparks flickering between his antennae with annoyance.
That you were good at your job may be true-, but it was also true that you both were still teetering on low rungs. It was either kill, collaborate or die out there.
You weren’t known for killing insofar, and you sure as Hell didn’t seem keen on dying despite your stunt today but… if what you had said previously was true, then Alastor was only a customer of yours. Not an ally- sure as hell not a partner… or at least Vox hoped that was true. Following that assumption, you stealing from Alastor would be an entirely different ballgame than just selling to him.
In all likelihood, Vox was sending you directly to your death- or eternal suffering, whichever Alastor felt like the day of. Go big or go home, right? Vox knew it and honestly? He didn’t give a shit either way, whatever it took to get you out of his tower right now… and maybe off the Overlord board permanently…
And if by some stroke of luck-? Well, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad…? Weird and volatile as you were, so was Val, and maybe you could-
But no. No, it’d never work. You were going to get caught and he was going to tune into the radio station to hear your confident, silky cadence turned into little screams of agony and terror.
Then, Vox could swoop in and pick up where you left off. How hard could it be doing what you do? Besides the business potential of controlling the niche markets… it’d also mean he wouldn’t have to outsource his more… delicate… material requirements.
Kels shifts forward, holds you out closer and higher than your height alone would allow- his head bows almost to the linoleum tile like you were some kind of goddess in his eyes. You stand at attention and don’t even wobble at the movement. Betraying just how many times you’d probably relaxed in this brute’s palm- big enough to crush you in his fist!- as if it were no big deal.
Held up to his eye level- and fuck… you may not be the tiniest thing to ever strut around Hell while also being all piss and vinegar, but in contrast to your beastly companion- in contrast to Vox himself- you seemed… small.
“Ah, ah. Not so fast.” You hold out your hand, claws tiny and silver- they shine teal when he tilts his screen down to squint with confusion at your proffered hand. “Here’s the offer… I get the trinket, I bring it back to you by the end of the week… and in exchange, you, me- sit down and talk. We deal on serious business, something with stakes and purpose and that will result in a mutual benefit to our illustrious careers as Overlords, yeah? Preferably my plot but hey, if you want to counter, I’m game to listen- got the ears for it, don’t I?”
You twitch one of your long ears at him to prove your point, grinning the whole while… You’re starting to remind him of someone… except the roles feel very much reversed…
“Is that all?”
“That’s all. That’s the offer.”
Vox groans softly, tapping his fingertips to the glass of his screen as though he still had a nose bridge to pinch in frustration.
“Fuck it… fine, you’ve got a deal.”
Vox’s hand engulfs your smaller one- tries not to think about it that hard- his claws biting into the fur there. Electricity sharp and blazing cyan crackles around his wrist to meet what looks to be pure liquid mercury- such is the mirror-like quality of the ties that you use to bind others to your will. They twine around each other- yours all round, soft curves versus all his sharp, burning edges- material and immaterial made one, before dissipating with a crackling hiss and pop.
If you die- or at least wish you were dead- then whatever, great! He gets to swoop in and sweep up the sizable territory and business ploys you’ve left behind. If you just didn’t get back to him by the end of the week then the contract dissolves anyways, no skin off his back.
On the slim- impossible, it’s completely and entirely impossible- chance you didn’t die and got the trinket…? Maybe then, and only then, would Vox admit to writing you off a little too soon…
Your claws drum a tinkling, ringing, rhythm against the weathered but well-maintained wood of the tea table- your eyes catch the divots and creases in the wood made by claw and knife alike. The teacup and saucer neatly set in front of Alastor rattles faintly, a bead of brown liquid from the undrank liquid drips down the otherwise pristine edge.
Notably, there is no cup on your side of the table. Not that you would drink anything he gave you.
“I must say, I am receiving very mixed signals from you, dear.” Alastor says with sweetness that rings false and faintly threatening all the same. What a talented man. He swiftly crosses one leg over the other, at the knee, as he sits down in his chair. Your own legs are tucked under the chair uncrossed- prepared to bolt, anticipating it. “I thought you did not like tea?”
Your ear twitches, the crackling hum of the radio- a distortion of a song you already don’t recognize playing- in the background is far louder than the ethereal whisper of static that Alastor produces naturally from his person. That whisper is still present, though, still grating on your raw instinctual nerves.
“I don’t.” You say, honestly- your whiskers twitch faintly when he hums in acknowledgement.
“Mhm… then whatever are you doing here?” His grin is wide and yellow, curved perfectly and sly, like the moon in van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Alastor reaches for the cup and saucer, lifts it unhurriedly to his mouth- takes a tiny sip while you watch the points of his teeth flash in the low light of his station slash den, “Have you changed your mind about… what was it you called it-? Ah yes. Have you had a change of heart about becoming my next temporary co-host…?”
You tilt your chin up- lean forward until you can fold your elbows against the edge of the table. Your spine away from the back of the rigid chairs, your ears droop to pin back and your nose is jutted forward- forcing your soft-edged silhouette into something sharp and pointed.
He wants to treat you like prey? Fine, but he’s no damn wolf and you’re not a rabbit in its jaws. You won’t treat him as such- an unequivocal enemy- he’s a fucking deer, who are opportunistic carnivores, yes- but the bottom line was that you believe he’s more like you than he wants- will ever- to admit.
There’s a game you can play here, there always is- perhaps especially the ones that no one would expect to play- but it is a game you have no doubt you can win. Whether you want to call it pride or your inherent talent. This is not the end- it’s the beginning. “Ah- no, no. Not exactly, sorry to disappoint you, but now that I have your undivided attention-”