Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They say, in Hell, the reason that you died is reflected in your appearance— and for the lucky few, in your powers. So, when you died by electrocution, you woke up down there looking like the bride of Frankenstein. While you got the hair under control, mostly returning it to its original state, a blue hue of your skin was something to get used to. You kept most of your human traits, thank god, because others were not so lucky. The powers are simple, at best, but being able to spark some electricity under your fingers is nice.

They say, everything about your appearance is related to your death. So, discoloration, a dark blue band that wraps around your left ring finger, should puzzle you. How could something like that be related to your death? Be so important that it is a permanent fixture on your skin.

Well, the ring that lived on that finger when you were alive is exactly the reason that you’re dead. It’s exactly the reason you are in Hell.

Honestly, it’s the thing that makes the most sense about this whole situation.

You died young, relatively speaking, 35 or 36. It's been so long since then that the exact age is fuzzy. 

Your life was good. Pretty damn good, all things considered. Two loving parents, being the youngest of 4 siblings, which made you daddy's little girl. Growing up, he pampered you to no end. He really was a good man, a good father. It was hard for him when you actually grew up and said you wanted to go off to college instead of getting married and getting taken care of, but he learned to understand, accepting that you wanted to pave your own path. That times were changing.

A journalist. That’s what you wanted to be. You had always dreamt of being a writer for a big paper, like the Times or the Post, so you moved as close to the source as you could. College on the East Coast was a brand new experience from day one. The campus was big, but you found your people. A tight pocket in your own corner of the world, you really do miss it sometimes.

Four years blinked by, and as you were getting your footing in the first half of senior year, you met him.

You weren't sure how you hadn't yet.

Vincent was charming in a unique way. You had your run in with sleazy guys, plenty of them, but he wasn't like that. The way he spoke, the way he held himself, it drew you to him like a moth to a flame.

You can clearly remember the first time you met, which of the things to remember is a weird one. You had taken a job at the front desk of the student paper, working nights and in between classes to save for after graduation. You had published a few articles in it so far, hoping to get more on your resume before leaving, but there were still some stereotypes about being a woman that had to be navigated, even if you were allowed to study there.

Vincent had walked into the building and up to your desk, glasses slightly askew. 

He fixed them as he spoke. “Do you know which way is the editorial office?”

“Down the hall and then you’ll take the first left.” You smiled up at him, pointing at the hallway on your right.

He smiled back, “Thanks.”

Then, he was gone, he disappeared down the hall to do whatever he had come in for.

You didn't see him again until a few days later. You honestly didn't expect to ever see him again, after such a simple and meaningless interaction, but the universe is funny like that.

“Can I sit here?”

You look up from the book you were reading for your English class. You were sitting at a two top in the campus cafe, sipping out of a warm mug on such a chilly day. Vincent stands at the side of the table, scarf wrapped around his neck and glasses a little foggy.

“Sure.” You reply.

That day, you learned his name was Vincent Whittman and that he was studying Marine Biology.

As time went on, you learnt he had a family. A Mom and Dad that he talked highly of, his father a successful surgeon, him being their only son. He talked about his mother like she was the best woman in the world, which you respected immensely.

You found yourself bracing your hand on your chin and just listening to him talk, he was good at that, at talking. He was funny, too. He asked about you, about your major and your interests. He seemed genuinely interested in what you had to say, which was nice.

Vincent actually cared about you.

You two became inseparable after that. It was friendly at first, you both liked having someone to talk to, someone who listened.

You introduced him to your friends, they told you that it was more than a friendship, you denied it.

But then you couldn't ignore the sparks after a while. It was subtle at first, a little flirting here and there, a brush of the hand while you walked. You had always thought he was cute, anyway, so what was the harm? Then, it became more apparent. Then, he asked you out on a date, stargazing. It was wonderful. Then, after that, you went on more.

You had a boyfriend in high school, Tyler. He was nice, treated you well, but it was never really more than that. Once you told him you were going to college, well, it ended pretty quickly after.

It was different with Vincent. It felt right. He was caring, attentive, fun. He took care of you while not clipping your wings. Was always there when you needed him, but wasn't controlling. A little possessive, sure, but it was cute, so you didn't mind.

He was your first for a lot of things. He made it feel easy, feel natural. He made you feel special, feel desired.

Behind his nerdy little glasses and many, many, shark facts, he was really fucking hot. He knew what to say, where to touch, what to do. He could make you a blushing mess in under 30 seconds if he tried. It was fun, exciting. It felt like your little secret. You miss it a lot, too.

When graduation rolled around, you made the decision that any two rational adults would. You planned to move into a cramped apartment in the city together. God, how your parents reacted when you called and told them. So, you did the best thing you could think of, brought him home to meet them.

Their tune changed quickly after that. Vincent knew how to talk to people, how to charm, and boy did he charm them. He was polite, funny, kind, and he really made it a show to treat you extra well while you were home. You told your folks how happy you were, how well he took care of you, and they relented.

You can remember your Dad shaking his hand as you climbed back into his car to leave. How you had just hugged your mother goodbye and she was struggling not to cry right on the front porch, how firm his grip was on Vincent's hand.

“You take care of my little girl. She deserves the world.” He says.

“Dad!” You shouted from the car, embarrassed. 

“She is the most important thing in my life, sir. I promise.” Vincent replies, dead serious.

Your Dad cracked a smile and pulled him in for a hug. Vincent was practically giddy about it the whole way home. That day really marked the beginning of the rest of your lives.

Vincent was well off. Not the ‘never have to work a day in your life’ type, but the type that could front a half a year's rent upfront so you both had time to get on your feet. You landed a job at a local dinner, a small mom and pop shop run by this wonderful couple. You worked on the weekdays, they were kind enough to give you weekends off, and Vincent got a job at an aquarium downtown. It was a small gig, he gave tours and worked with some of the animals, but he always wanted to do more.

That was the thing with Vincent. He was never satisfied with what he had. He always wanted more, wanted bigger, wanted to be bigger.

Which is a sentiment you shared, in certain ways.

Young love is a beautiful thing. You lived fast, fun, exciting. You went out on dates and enjoyed each other's company, finding comfort in the privacy of your home afterwards. You don't think you could've been happier if you tried. You had your fights; money, jobs, dreams. All of the normal things couples fight about, but never anything past that. Things were good. Great, even.

You lived like this for a long time, created a routine mixed in with one another. It never got old, he could never get old, but you both got comfortable, predictable. Vincent always hated being predictable.

So, then he proposed. After 3 and a half years of knowing one another, he proposed. It was around Christmas time. He took you out to dinner and got down on one knee there in the restaurant. You gushed as people around you shared congratulations. The ring was beautiful, Vincent knew just what you wanted, he always did.

You were engaged for a while. You both wanted it to be perfect, so you waited until it could be. Vincent got a better job, you started interviewing for news outlets. His parents, bless them, helped you move into a better apartment.

But when the time was right? It was wonderful. You got married on a rooftop with your closest friends and family. A quick, simple ceremony for two kids living in the city, then some drinks afterwards. You can so clearly picture Vincent crying as you walked down the aisle with your father, it made your heart thump a million miles a minute. You stood and wiped a tear rolling down his cheek, making you both laugh. The way he kissed you at the altar is something you will never be able to forget. The care, the intention, the love. It was the happiest moment of your entire life.

Things picked up after that. You landed a job at a publishing company, not exactly what you wanted but it was a step in the right direction. The excitement resparked as you both transitioned into this new era of your lives, your relationship.

Everything was perfect. He was perfect, your life was perfect, you were so happy.

So what the fuck happened?

It began the day he came home with that weatherman job.

“The news?” You question, feet propped up under you on the couch. “We don't even have a set.”

“We’ll get one!” He says, hanging up his coat by the door. “This is the next big thing, trust me. I can feel it.”

He was so excited. To be a part of something new, to pioneer. The minute his first paycheck hit he went out and bought the best television set he could afford. You would sit at home after work and watch him do his segment, gesturing at a plastic map with his little pointer. He was so adorable, audiences thought so as well.

The first time he brought you around the studio, you were starstruck. You liked physical media, the papers, but this was really the next big thing. Cameras like the movies, stage lights that made your skin glow, it was so unreal. One of Vincent’s bosses even tried to recruit you, something about wardrobe, but you declined.

Life went on. After the glitz of a new job wore off, as anyone did, he had his issues. He would come home and lay across your lap, bitching about his superiors while you ran a hand through his hair. Normal people bitch, so you didn't pay any attention to it.

But then his discontent turned into something else. To greed, to a need to be something more. To be better than them.

The night his co-worker, an older gentleman named Charles, died, Vincent was home 15 minutes later than usual. Not that you were one to count the minutes, but in the year or so that he had worked at the station, he was rarely late. Traffic, he said, when you asked why he was coming home so late. You gave him a kiss and continued making dinner, accepting it as the truth.

When they gave him Charles’s position at the news desk, you and Vincent went to dinner to celebrate his promotion. He never seemed particularly torn up about his passing, but the men were never close. Vincent had some choice words about him, especially after particularly long days, so you chalked it up to their differences, though it was still sad.

He sat at the news desk for 2 whole years before he got restless again. You noticed how antsy he got, how angry he seemed. You tried to pry it out of him, comfort or do something, but he was a stone wall. He said he was fine, that was all.

You figured it out, but you never did confront him with the knowledge. He wasn't the main attraction anymore at the station. They had hired someone younger, someone newer, to head a new project, a night time talk show. When it took off, it shoved someone into Vincent’s spotlight, and he was not happy about that. Your rational brain wanted to tell him that he was still important, still relevant, but you knew he wouldn't hear it.

The night that new boy, William, died, Vincent came home late again. You had been worried sick about him for at least few weeks up until this point, so, when he got home, you confronted him. You asked what was going on and why he wouldn't talk to you, his wife, who he never kept secrets from.

You remember the look in his eye when he looked down at you. It was almost sad, but you can’t say regretful. He thought hard about what he wanted to do, wanted to say. 

And then he told you.

He told you everything. About Charles, about William, about his compulsive need to be the best and the brightest. How he knew better than all of them and he was going to transform the industry into something amazing. How he was doing it for the both of you, how he loved you so much and would never, ever, think of harming you.

Horrified is an understatement. Oh how you cried, how confused you were. Here was your husband, your sweet, loving, Vincent, telling you that he had killed someone. More than once. You cursed a lot that night. He told you that you could leave, that he wouldn't stop you.

But you let him hold you as you cried. It didn't feel any different, you weren't afraid he was going to suddenly strangle you or anything, it was still your husband holding you, comforting you.

It was still your husband who needed you. Who loved you.

Things changed after that day, but you stayed. What choice did you really have, other than up and running back to your parents? And you loved him, god you loved him. He was good to you, you were good to one another.

You didn't talk about it much, you didn't want to know and he respected that. Your relationship, relativity speaking, went back to normal after you came down from the shock. Your routine started again, and if he ever came home late, well you just didn't bother to ask.

Time passed, he got greedier, but he still succeeded. More people died and you cleaned the clothes he wore when he killed them. Every stain you scrubbed out of his white shirtsleeves made your stomach churn a bit. You were harboring a murderer. A violent, impulsive man who will do whatever it takes to get what he wants.

But then you would hand him the shirt, ironed and folded, and he would kiss you on the head. He would bring you home flowers and gifts like he always did. That’s when you saw Vincent again. Your husband.

So you kept quiet. Kept living your simple life, your good life. He never suddenly turned cruel, or ever threatened you. But as time passed, he turned into a shell of who you knew.

Honestly, you did too.

The station sucked more and more of the life out of him. He worked harder, stayed later, went crazier. He pushed more and more people out of his way on his path to glory.

He climbed the ladder without ever stopping to check if you were keeping up behind him. 

You felt so empty, so alone, near the end. Suddenly, you had become a CEO’s wife, which required a lot more on your part, as well as his. Parties, events, dinners, things that CEOs are expected to do. You went, you supported him, but you were never really there.

Because that's what you did for one another, you were just there when he needed you. 

He came home later and later, hitting the bed almost instantly, to only turn around 6 hours later and do it all again. You don't remember the last time he had held you, made you feel like that girl from college. He started doing substances, which he tried to hide when you asked, but you knew him too well for that. You didn't like it, not one bit, it was frying his brain, but he was dismissive.

Just like he had been for the last couple of years. Completely dismissive.

The Vincent before you was not your Vincent anymore. He was manic, controlling, and a plain fucking mess. That was not your husband, the boy who swept you off your feet, who shook your fathers hand, who made that commitment to you when he said I do.

But you couldn't help yourself from thinking that he was still inside there. Somewhere, deep and locked away, begging to be let out. Begging for you. Begging for his Angel to help him.

Thinking about that nickname hurts now. He coined it early on and you fell in love with it immediately. ‘My Angel’ he’d purr, before planting a kiss on your cheek. You think if you ever heard those words again you’d cry on the spot.

The day you died, you woke up with this guttural feeling that something was wrong. You can still feel the cold sweat your body woke up drenched in, the quick breaths you had to take to calm down. The panic woke Vincent up, who, for the first time in god knows how long, held you. It lacked the warmth it used to bring you, his fingers only bringing a small distant buzz to your arms as he attempted to comfort you.

You begged him not to go. To stay in a day. That you could both take it easy, spend some time together. That you felt this sickness that you just couldn't explain.

But he refused, dismissing it, as he did. Told you everything was going to be just fine. That he had it under control.

“You should come watch tonight’s show. You haven't been up to the station in a while.” He said, stroking his fingers through your hair as you laid against his chest. You hadn't been this intimate in a long time.

You began to protest, but he just pulled you closer. It felt a little desperate, needy, something that you hadn't seen from him in a long time. You felt your heart twang there and then.

“Please, baby? I miss you.” He said, it was almost a whisper. At that moment, you felt that maybe, just maybe, your husband could come back.

So, you agreed. You’d come downtown after work and visit. He kissed you on the forehead and then left for the station soon after, leaving you alone in your bed to feel sick all over again. After tossing and turning for a little while longer, you did the next best thing that came to mind, you called your Dad.

Mom had died two years ago. It was hard on you all, but on your dad especially. So you called to check up on him ever so often, to tell him you loved him. With this unexplainable pit in your stomach, it felt like the right thing to do. You spoke as the sun rose, you asked about home, he asked about Vincent. You were secretly glad they had never gotten a television set.

The TV station was bustling when you arrived that afternoon. They knew who you were, you were still his wife after all, and ushered you to where his sound stage was set up for the show. But it wasn't down the hall you remembered, they led you down to an older, unused part of the building.

You aren’t sure if it was a suicide mission, though knowing the pride on that man you don’t think he was content enough with his story for it to end, or what, but the room was doomed from the start. TVs strung haphazardly up in the air, water coating the floor, glass for seemingly old fish tanks, like this is where they used to host the aquatic show that one man ran before he also met his demise.

It all really happened in an instant, if you are being honest. You joined the crowd, Vincent began his show, the people loved it. You could understand, vaguely, in that moment why he loved doing this, loved the attention. He preached and preached, you made eye contact one or twice as he spoke like a madman. You swore his smile grew a tick wider every time you looked at one another.

Then, as soon as it began, it was over. Not because Vincent was done with his program, because, well, you were dead.

One of the TVs had fallen, the cord holding it up snapping in half, falling directly on Vincent's head and electrocuting everyone in the room.

Electrocuting you.

God you wish you could’ve told him how fucking stupid he was. How clearly dangerous it was, how worried about him you had been. You wish you had been a little more persistent that morning, then maybe neither of you would've died.

Or maybe it was inevitable, maybe your story was over.

No reason to dwell on it now, right? Not much you can do.

When you woke up in hell, you freaked. Really fucking freaked. At what was happening, what you looked like, that you were dead, all of it. Years of pent up emotion let out in the minute you hit the hot concrete of the streets. It was hard. Really fucking hard, as you presume hell is supposed to be, but you found you footing. Took odd jobs, got a place to live, navigated the weird inverted norms that people carried themselves with. After a while, you landed a waitressing gig, similar to the one you had back on top, and stuck with it.

You remember the first time you heard his voice again. You weren't sure how hell worked, but you were sure that he was down here somewhere. It would be just cruel if you were and he wasn't, cruel and wrong.

Some part of you missed him every damn day. Missed your husband, the glimpse of the man you saw the day you died. But you were dead, and there was no getting that back, so you tried to move on.

Television sets lived in windows of shops, a few in public spaces, when you first arrived in hell, similarly to earth. They popularized as quickly as they popularized while you were alive, but you really avoided getting one for yourself, it was too big of a painful reminder.

You were walking home from the store when you heard it. It had to have been no more than a year after you died, maybe a little longer. You spun around on your heel because you swore you knew that voice, that tone, but nobody was behind you. When you turned back towards your destination, you caught a glimpse of the figure occupying the screen in the shop window, the voice emanating from the picture box.

That's when it clicked. You nearly dropped your bags walking up to the window. It seems that your physical punishment didn't treat you nearly as bad as it did him. His head resembled the very CRT you were watching the ad on, just like the one that fell from the ceiling that day. You wondered how long it would take someone to accept they became the very thing that caused their death, but it seemed like he embraced his newfound state.

You stood and watched for a while, hearing his voice again gluing you straight to the spot. Vox is what he called himself, he was selling some technology related products. You honestly didn't, or couldn't, pay attention, the sound of his voice swelled inside your head as he spoke.

The same voice that whispered sweet nothings in your ear before bed, the same voice that spoke his vows at your wedding.

He was right there. You had found him.

But then, that familiar lonely weight started to set in. Because as much as you could picture his face, or want to hear his voice, all you could see was a reminder of the man he was when he died. The tv, the ad, the way he held himself, that was Vincent all right, but that was Vincent Whittman, TV personality. That was not your husband. Not anymore.

From the one semester you took latin in school, his name meant voice. His voice was always one of his strongest attributes, so it made sense. You thought it was a little corny, but you'd never admit it out loud.

So, after a few minutes of deliberation, you turned and you walked away. Tears began to well up as you stepped further away from the shop. You missed him so much. So damn much, his touch, his words, his presence. But you knew there was no getting that back, not from the man you saw on that screen. It would just be an eternity of what the last years of your life felt like, empty and slow.

You would not return to a man that you let get away with so much evil. You already live with that guilt every damn day, you will not let him try to excuse it away and make everything okay again.

From that day on, Vox was not your Vincent. You completely separated them in your mind, it was easier that way. You could hold on to the memory of your dear husband without letting him taint it any longer.

Time passed, as it always seems to do, and you lived on. Made a nice simple routine for yourself and got comfortable, as comfortable as you could in hell.

As time passed, unsurprisingly, he began growing once again. It was stupid to assume that he wouldn't try it all over again, but you hoped maybe he would take it easy. He didn’t. As he grew, his outreach did too. He tried to have something with the Radio Demon, they were seen all over hell together at one point, but that didn't seem to work out too well…

He worked alone for a while, making himself the next big thing, and as he grew his territory, he coupled with two other growing overlords. They call themselves the Vee’s, creating a media empire who had their hands in every little corner of the respective world. 

He had his partner, Valentino, in seemingly… all senses of that word, which really confused you when you found out, but you’ve come to realize hell is a very… different place. Especially after being down here for so long. You just never never expected it from your– from him. 

The girl one, Velvet, at least had a good taste in clothes.

It got harder to feel completely hidden, completely safe, as he grew. The Vees took over more and more territory, making your job only a few blocks away from their never sleeping city. You avoided going even near their streets with the mass amounts of screens he has… well, everywhere.

But sometimes, it was inevitable. They had a monopoly on a lot of goods as overlords. Even if you could probably find the things you needed somewhere else, taking much more time out of your day and much more money, you felt like taking the risk. He hadn't seen you for this long, maybe you had gotten away with it for good. So you’d walk the streets of their district, hood up or hat firming blocking your face, just in case.

That’s when the little powers you had manifested came into good use. You used them casually, it helped a lot at the diner, sparking burners or zapping a cup of coffee, but other than that you really had no regular use for them.

The first time you did it, it was kind of an accident. You turned the corner and, mistakenly, looked up past your ball cap directly into a security camera on the building in front of you. Was he watching? Honestly, who knows. But you didn't want to take any chances. You went to throw your hands up to block your face, shooting out a jolt of electricity out of your fingertips, watching it short out the camera in front of you.

You stopped dead on the sidewalk, causing some guy to shoulder check you as he walked past, but you didn't care. It had flown so quick, if you had blinked you would've missed it completely. You just gave yourself a little more freedom at the flick of your fingertips.

You relaxed a bit after that, walking down the street and flicking your wrist at anything that might even barely see you. You honestly had a little fun with it, they were always fixed after a couple of days, so either he didn't care or he wasn't able to figure out what, or who, was doing it.

Thankfully, in the years that you had both been down here, you only have ever had one close encounter with Vox.

After work one evening, you decided to go to pick up your favorite take out, which, unfortunately, was about 5 blocks into the entertainment district. You hiked up your hood and started the trek, eyes fixed to the pavement in front of you.

Get in, get out, relax at home.

The lights got brighter as you travelled further in. That was their thing, this ‘Vegas glamor techno’ mashup. You turn the corner, approaching a night club, when you hear tires sequel on the pavement. Instinctively, you look up, stopping still in your tracks when you see the V that is perched on the hood of the car.

One by one, the Vee’s climb out of their limo, paparazzi swarming around them from every possible side. God, you should run, turn away, do something, but you watched. You watched as he climbed out, offering the moth a hand out of the car. 

Vox looked so… content. Like he was exactly where he wanted to be, which is not close to what you saw when you were alive. On camera, sure, but never alone. Maybe he finally had what he wanted, what he was working so hard for.

He looked in your direction briefly, and you threw your head down, turning back around the corner, narrowly avoiding eye contact. The world carried on as you hurried back the way you came.

You never did get your food that night. You went straight home and sat in silence, you needed to be more careful.

Times like that made you actually wonder. Was he looking for you? Did he care? Were you doing all of this sneaking around bullshit for nothing? Would he even react at the mention of your name?

Did he leave you behind with Vincent, dead and buried memories of his past life?

You did not wish to find out, especially if he wanted to drag you back into his antics. You were free, trying to stay unburdened by the past, for the most part, and you’d like it to keep it that way.

You keep your tabs, it’s hard not to when he’s an overlord, but you keep your distance. Indifference grows in the place where your love used to live, killing the feeling of missing him more and more each day.

It’s been a long time since you landed in hell. Decades, if you could believe it.

It was a rather hot Saturday in the summer months of the Pride ring. You bustle around the diner, refilling cups and dropping plates onto tables with practiced grace. Your afternoon shift was wrapping up, so you wiped your hands on your apron and headed to the back to clock out. For being on the cusp of the entertainment district, you appreciated they still used an old punch clock mounted on the back wall.

“I’m out, Darleen! I’ll see you tomorrow.” You shout to the back, where the manager, a sweet lady– well, a ‘lady’ with one eye and fangs– named Darleen, stands pulling different items off of a shelf. 

“Bye, Hon. Get home safe!” She replies.

“Have a good night.” You say, folding your apron and leaving it in the little cubbies each of you get for your personal belongings, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

Even on hot days like this, you still had to be an adult and run errands, nobody was going to do it for you. A quick trip to the store and then stopping by that cute boutique on 20th to get a new dress since you had ripped a hole in one recently.

You followed your routine to a T, digging a ball cap out of your bag and fixing it on your head as you walked further into the entertainment district. The passing cameras you didn't bother with, since you were walking amongst crowds of people, it was when you stopped places that you took it upon yourself to kill his feed.

The grocery store was always quick. You packed your bag with the few items you needed after paying the cashier, with cash of course. It was convenient that that was how the diner paid you, making sure there was no way to trace any purchases back. As you stepped outside the doors, without even looking back, you shot the security camera that lived right above the exit. You knew the placement well by now.

The boutique was another story. You walked slowly, shooting at any that entered your peripheral vision. You relaxed once inside the building, discreetly shorting out the one that lived behind the counter as you browsed. It didn't take you long at all to pick what you wanted, being immortal allows you all the time in the world to become peculiar and particular about your fashion taste.

After trying it on, to make sure it fit how you liked, and checking out with the sweet older lady who worked the counter, you slung the garment bag over your arm and made your way back outside.

Even while being so careful, you had your foolish moments. Everyone does, but unfortunately, this one would end up being not so easily forgettable. Instead of walking back the way you came, the way you had made sure you were fine to take, the heat gets to your brain instead, and you decide you could take the quicker route home.

Walking quickly down the street, sinners buzzed all around you, headed in every different direction. As you navigated around them, a light caught your eye from the shop on your left.

You wish you had noticed the red hue of that light seconds earlier. You were usually good about keeping your head down, ignoring all of the screens and flashy lights that the Vee’s controlled.

But once you looked, you couldn't look away. 

The red swirled, filling every screen as his voice droned on, you were too far to hear exactly what he was saying, stopping you dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk.

Shit.

Your feet carried you right up to the window with other sinners who had been caught in the hypnosis, even though you didn't tell them to. Your own voice began getting smaller and smaller in your own head, it filling up with a distant buzz and Vox’s voice as he spoke. Your entire will power went to not dropping your bags all over the street for people to snatch as you were stuck in this trance.

You wanted to fight it, to run away, to get as far out of this situation as you could, but there was no fighting this. You barely even heard your own pleas for help as you stared at the screen that was now playing an ad for a brand new 125 inch tv, brought to you by Voxtek!

“Isn’t it great?” A tall, bug looking sinner next to you asks, not directed at anyone in particular.

The words leave your mouth before you can even think about stopping them.

“Yeah. It is.”

…

A sad noise chirped from Vox’s computer, followed by another one, and then two more after that.

“What the fuck…” He grumbled, flicking open the error message that had popped up on his console. 

This was the fifth time this month his cameras had failed, and this has been going on for who knows how many months before that. 

At first, he thought it was just a power failure, they were shorting themselves out from the grid, something way below him. He sent techs out, they fixed them, end of story. Until it happened again. So he sent people to check out the grid, see if it was sending too much power or something.

That wasn't the issue either.

When it got brought up to him, again, he tasked someone with watching the area, seeing what was causing them to shut down so unexpectedly. If he had someone tampering with his property, he wanted to know.

But when the blasted fool came back absolutely fucking nothing and the cameras were still being busted at least twice a month, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

Which took awhile. He was a busy guy, being a billionaire tech CEO and all, and some security cameras in a relatively quiet corner of the district weren't at the top of his to-do list.

These alerts were a fresh reminder about the whole situation, and he had some time on his hands, so he clacked away on his console to get to the bottom of this mystery camera killer.

The flashing red triangles run up the map, straight up Velvet Ave, because why wouldn’t you name your streets after yourselves if you were rich and powerful, and take a turn onto the 20th before stopping abruptly.

Vox zooms in as another warning pops up, this time right outside a building. He quickly keys into the direct feed of a camera inside, the video showing the inside of a clothing store.

Vox grumbles. No way a chick has been causing all of this trouble with his, undeniably perfect, technology.

He watches as a figure, identity masked by the bill of a cap, pushes the door open, stepping inside towards the racks. 

Come on, just take it off.

The figure glances in the direction of the camera, Vox silently pleads that they'll make eye contact, or he’ll be able to get a scan of the face, because then it was over for that mother fucker.

But quickly after they looked in its direction, the camera was nothing but static…?

“What the fuck?” Vox repeats, this time with his chest. He didn't even see them do anything. Was it a mind thing? What kind of fucking power is that?

Vox huffs as he exits from that feed and tabs into another camera from inside the store, one that was tucked in the back corner. It wasn't the best view, but he couldn’t give up now.

He watched, from much further away than he would’ve liked, as… whoever did their shopping. He leans back in his chair, annoyed. There's no way he’s getting anything from this, and he didn't want to wait around all day for some lady to comb through dresses.

Despite his internal protests, he watches anyway. It’ll be worth it when he can stop whoever was breaking his shit.

He watches the figure do a spin in the mirror and pop a foot up, before reentering the changing room, seemingly satisfied. 

Vox let out a single chuckle to himself. It reminded him of someone, someone from a very long time ago.

The memory is ripped away from him as he notices the figure headed for the door, having already paid.

“Shit–” Vox mutters, switching to one of the outside cams that wasn't busted. It was across the street, but he could still make out who he was supposed to be watching.

They’ll probably go back the way they came, and he will have to play this stalking game for far longer than he’d like.

And then they turn, they turn the opposite way of all the alarms going off on Vox’s map.

“I got you now, you little shit.” 

Vox switches once again, this time to a camera on the corner of 20th, right in the direction that his perpetrator was walking. He watches as they dodge in between other sinners who aren't about to just move, and then, by some hell-forsaken miracle, get caught in one of his many meticulously placed ads.

“Oh fuck yes!” He says as he watches the pain in his ass get mindless drawn into the television set. He keys out of the security cam, pulling up the tv’s signal instead. One thing about being the media overlord is that he has eyes and ears everywhere. If he wanted to watch through one of his tv’s, or tap in through one of his millions of Voxtek produced phones, he could with the flick of his wrist.

He watches the monitor as if it were the television, and he was sitting inside of it watching out the window. He watches as the girl, undeniable a girl now, gets closer and closer to the window, the red light from his own eye illuminating her face.

Then he feels his heart, if he even had one anymore, drop to his stomach. He knew that face. Even in the depths of hell with all of its body modifications classified as punishments, he would never forget that face.

He flicks open another computer window, pin pointing the spot in an instant and pulling any audio frequencies he could get his hands on, phones, cameras, anything, since the television was stuck behind some glass. 

He lets them play aloud as he turns back to his main monitor, mouth parted ever so slightly.

There is no fucking way. No chance in hell that this was who he thought it was. It… it wasn't possible.

But as her, well, your voice rang out through his office speakers, laced with the lazy tone of his hypnosis, there was really no denying who was finally, after so many years, back in front of him.

Vox speaks at almost a whisper, unable to fully believe what he was actually seeing.

“My Angel?”