Chapter Text
Alastor was, by all objective accounts, a prisoner. His slender frame was lashed to a sleek, overly-engineered ergonomic desk chair—the kind of modern monstrosity Vox no doubt bragged about in a catalog. But Alastor had always been a master of finding the silver lining in a dark cloud, and today, that silver lining happened to be high-quality ball-bearing wheels.
Alastor tilted the swivel chair back on two wheels, a precarious, mocking balance that defied gravity and common sense. He looked utterly bored, his permanent grin stretched wide, though the faint, rhythmic thump-thump of his foot against the floor betrayed a certain jagged energy.
Squeak. Swish. Squeak.
He dug the toe of his dress shoe into the carpet and gave a sharp shove. The chair spun half a rotation, leaving Alastor facing the ceiling with a dizzying, wide-eyed grin. Internally, a warm, fuzzy hum started to vibrate in his chest—a feeling he usually kept locked behind heavy iron doors. The sensation of the wind (or rather, the air conditioning) hitting his face as he moved was… nice. Too nice.
"Stay focused, dammit", Alastor chided himself, though his heels were already itching to kick off again. "You are the Radio Demon. This is a tactical psychological assault. Not... playtime."
Scrrrrape-squeak.
Vox’s screen flickered to a harsh, jagged red. He turned slowly, his digital eyes narrowed into two thin, pulsing lines. Alastor was currently three feet to the left of where he had been a moment ago, having successfully scooted himself toward a stack of 'V-Vox' monitors.
"You’re doing this on purpose," Vox growled, his voice dropping into a low, distorted bass. "You’re tied to a chair in the heart of my empire, and you’re treating it like a goddamn bumper car."
"On purpose? Why, Vox, I’m shocked! I’m merely exploring the 'user experience' you’re always raving about," Alastor replied. He couldn't help it; he gave another little push, gliding smoothly across the floor with a soft whirr.
The sheer smoothness of the motion was intoxicating. It felt like flying, just an inch off the ground. A small, traitorous part of his mind—the part that liked soft blankets and shiny things—wanted to tuck his knees up to his chest and see how fast he could go if he really tried.
"I’m working, Alastor! Important, 'future-of-Hell and taking over Heaven' type shit!" Vox slammed a fist onto his desk, causing a spark of electricity to jump between his antennae. "And all I can hear is the sound of $1,200 wheels dragging a prehistoric deer across my floor!"
Alastor tilted his head, his smile taking on a particularly jagged, mocking edge. "Perhaps if your 'future' weren't so dreadfully loud and plastic, I wouldn't feel the need to provide my own soundtrack. But since we’re here..."
With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Alastor used both feet to propel himself backward, aiming for the far wall.
"Wheeeee," he added, the word delivered in a flat, perfectly timed radio deadpan that was arguably the most insulting thing he’d said all day.
Vox’s screen went completely white for a second as he processed the sheer audacity. Alastor stared directly into Vox’s flickering screen, his eyes wide and unblinking, while his foot slowly, deliberately pushed against the floor.
Squeeeeeak.
This time the sound was like a nail scraping across a chalkboard, amplified by the sterile acoustics of the room.
Internally, Alastor was a chaotic mess of static and silk. Every time the chair glided, a traitorous thrill of "zoomies" shot through his nerves. It was dangerously fun. The way the wheels hummed and the world blurred just a little—it was a sensory siren song, calling to the soft, small thing he kept buried under layers of shadow and blood. The green threads of his magic were humming at a frantic frequency, acting like metaphysical sutures, holding his little side at bay.
"I am the Radio Demon", he chanted mentally, a grim mantra behind his fixed grin."I am a nightmare. I am an Overlord. I do not... want... to go 'whee'."
But then he looked at Vox, who was visibly vibrating with suppressed rage, and the urge to be a complete nuisance won out. It was a very specific kind of spite—the kind a cat displays when it makes eye contact with you right before shoving a crystal vase off a shelf.
Alastor shoved off again. This time, he did a slow, taunting lap around the perimeter of Vox's desk.
Skreeee. Whirrr. Thump.
He hit a cable protector and bounced, the little jolt making his stomach flip in a way that almost made him let out a genuine, high-pitched chirp. He caught it just in time, masking the sound with a burst of heavy, distorted radio fuzz.
Vox’s screen was a strobe light of angry red and warning-sign yellow. His hands were clenched so tight on the edge of his desk that the metal was starting to groan. He was trying—he was really trying—to finish this data upload, but the rhythmic, mocking squeal of the chair was like a drill to his digital brain.
Alastor stopped exactly two feet away from Vox. He waited. One second. Two seconds. Then, with a look of pure, unadulterated sass, he used his toe to spin himself in a tiny, rapid circle.
Squeaksqueaksqueaksqueak—
"ALASTOR! GOD-DAMN IT!"
Vox exploded, spinning around so fast a spark of blue electricity arched from his antenna and blew out a nearby lamp. His screen was a jagged mess of 'ERROR' messages and pulsing red veins.
"I am trying to run a multi-billion dollar empire, and you are sitting there acting like a goddamn toddler with a new toy! SHUT. THE. HELL. UP!"
Alastor didn't flinch. He just tilted his head, his smile somehow getting even more annoying. "Is something bothering you, Vox? You seem... glitchy. Perhaps you should try a system reboot? Or perhaps," he gave the chair a tiny, half-inch scoot, "you’re just jealous that my 'outdated' legs still work better than your overpriced hardware."
"Jealous?!" Vox’s voice rose to a distorted shriek. He stormed over, his shadow looming large and jagged against the neon lights. "You’re tied to a chair! You’re a prisoner! I could delete your entire existence right now, and you’re... you’re doing donuts in my office like a bratty little prick!"
"Bratty?" Alastor’s heart skipped a beat at the word. The green threads behind his eyes pulled so tight they felt like they might snap. "Why, Vox, I’m hurt. I’m simply making use of the amenities. You really should have provided a more... stationary... form of incarceration if you wanted me to sit still like a good little boy."
He said it as a challenge, a taunt to prove he wasn't affected, but his voice had a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor—a crack in the radio signal.
Alastor gave the chair one last, agonizingly slow push with the tip of his shoe, maintaining unblinking eye contact with Vox the entire time. Squeeeee—clack. The chair bumped into the corner of Vox’s mahogany desk with a dull thud.
Internally, Alastor was screaming. Not in pain, but in a frantic, high-pitched scramble of static. The "Little" side of his mind was clapping its hands, delighted by the collision, wanting to do it again, louder, harder. The green threads of his magic were vibrating so violently they felt like they were sawing into his jawbone.
Vox let out a sound like a hard drive crashing—a harsh, digital wheeze of pure, unadulterated frustration. He surged forward, his screen flickering with "SYSTEM OVERLOAD" warnings in bright, neon yellow.
"That. Is. IT!"
Vox swiftly rose up from his chair and stepped into Alastor’s personal space, his screen pulsing with a cold, rhythmic light that made the shadows in the room dance erratically. He didn't yell this time. Instead, his voice dropped into a low, terrifyingly smooth frequency—the kind he used during his most manipulative late-night infomercials.
"You like everything stationary, don't you, Alastor?" Vox murmured, his digital eyes narrowing as he loomed over the chair. "You surround yourself with things that don't change. Antiques. Records. That pathetic, crackling radio signal. You mock my 'spectacle' because it moves too fast for you. Because it evolves."
Alastor’s knuckles were white where he gripped the armrests. The internal static was reaching a deafening roar, a frantic attempt to drown out the words that were beginning to peel back his skin.
"You can laugh at the future all you want," Vox continued, his voice dripping with newfound clinical cruelty. "But we both know why you do it. It’s a defense mechanism. You’re terrified of a world that moves forward because you’re physically, fundamentally incapable of moving with it. You aren't just an 'old soul,' Alastor. You’re stunted."
The word hit Alastor like a physical strike. Stunted. Small. Incapable. The green threads behind his eyes began to hum—a high-pitched, agonizing vibration that made his vision blur.
Vox reached out suddenly. He didn't grab Alastor by the throat or the collar. He reached up and seized Alastor’s deer ears, his metallic claws digging into the soft, velvet fur with a firm, controlling grip. He pulled Alastor’s head back, forcing the Radio Demon to look up at him.
"Look at you," Vox hissed, his screen displaying a jagged, mocking grin. "You’re trapped in a cycle you can’t break. You can’t grow. You can’t develop. You’re just... a permanent, frozen little piece of the past. You think you’re an Overlord, but you’re really just a brat who refuses to grow up because he doesn’t know how."
To Vox, it was a critique of Alastor’s outdated technology and refusal to adapt. But to Alastor, it was a direct assault on the secret he’d spent a lifetime burying. The double meaning felt like a hot iron pressed against his psyche. In a world where your Classification defined your soul, being told you were "incapable of growth" was the ultimate exposure.
"I am not small. I am not a child. I am powerful," Alastor’s mind hissed, but the broadcast was failing.
"What's the matter, Al?" Vox’s voice was a predatory purr, his grip on Alastor’s ears tightening just enough to be dominant. "Did I finally find the one thing the Radio Demon can't laugh away? Is the truth a little too much for a big boy like you to handle?"
Alastor’s breath came in a sharp, jagged hitch, the sound of his radio-fuzz distorting into a high-pitched, electronic whine that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
His permanent smile didn't just look forced now—it looked violent. The corners of his mouth began to twitch uncontrollably, a microscopic tremor that betrayed his absolute panic. For the first time, the emerald-green magic became visible to the naked eye. Thin, glowing filaments of light started to pulse along his jawline and up toward his temples, frantically trying to stitch his crumbling composure back together. They flickered with a frantic, rhythmic light, looking less like a spell and more like a desperate, straining cage.
In the harsh, clinical light of the monitors, Vox noticed something flickering along Alastor's jawline. It wasn't blood, and it wasn't a shadow. It was a faint, pulsating glow of emerald green.
"What the...?" Vox narrowed his eyes, his screen zooming in with a digital whirr. He let go of the chair and reached out, his fingers hovering near Alastor's cheek. "What is this? Some kind of defensive spell? You’re so pathetic you have to stitch your own face together just to keep from crying?"
Alastor’s eyes blew wide. His pupils contracted into tiny, trembling radio dials. No. Don't touch. Don't look. The panic was no longer an adult fear of being defeated; it was a small, raw terror of being seen.
"It’s nothing but a bit of flair, Vox," Alastor managed to say, but his voice cracked, a burst of heavy distortion masking the tremor. "A little theatricality for the audience. Surely a media mogul such as yourself understands the importance of... maintenance."
"Maintenance? This looks like a goddamn straightjacket for your face," Vox muttered. He felt a surge of predatory curiosity. He wasn't thinking about the reasons why Alastor had put it on his face, he just thought he’d found Alastor’s "off" switch. He thought if he broke these threads, the Radio Demon would finally break, too.
Vox hooked a claw under one of the shimmering green lines near Alastor's ear.
"You love this smile so much, Al?" Vox’s voice was a low, cruel hum. "Let’s see what happens when we take it off."
"Vox, I wouldn't—"
Snap.
The sound of the thread snapping wasn't loud, but in the sudden silence of the room, it echoed like a gunshot.
The emerald light didn’t just fade; it evaporated, taking the Radio Demon’s terrifying composure with it. For seven decades, that smile had been a fixed point in Hell—a jagged, terrifying constant. And then, in a heartbeat, it simply… collapsed.
The right side of Alastor’s mouth fell limp, followed by the left. His lips, once stretched into a sharp, predatory line, began to quiver. The radio static—the constant, comforting hum of his power—died with a pathetic, whining sound, leaving the air heavy and terrifyingly quiet.
Vox stared, his claws still hooked in the air where the magic had been. "Alastor?"
He was expecting a curse. He was expecting Alastor to transform into a towering nightmare of antlers and shadows to tear his throat out. He was expecting the "real" Alastor to finally stand up.
He didn't expect the chin to wobble. He didn't expect the eyes to well up with massive, shimmering tears that made Alastor’s pupils look like wide, frightened saucers.
"Al…?" Vox’s voice was small, his screen flickering to a confused, dull blue. "Hey, what’s… what are you doing?"
Alastor let out a hitching, ragged breath. It wasn't the breath of a demon; it was the sound of a lungful of air being sucked in by someone who had forgotten how to breathe. His chest heaved, and then, the floodgates opened.
It was a loud, messy, hiccuping sob—the kind of raw, unrestrained wail that belongs in a nursery, not a torture chamber. Alastor’s head slumped forward, his hair falling over his face as he began to cry with a desperate, soul-crushing intensity.
"I— hic— I didn't… waaaaah!"
The sound was jarring. It was a high-pitched, childish lament that made Vox’s internal cooling fans kick into overdrive. Alastor began to squirm in his bonds, but not to escape—he was rocking, his knees pulling up as much as the ropes allowed, his entire body trembling as he buried his face in his shoulder.
Vox jumped back as if he’d been electrocuted.
"Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa! Stop that! Shut up! What the fuck is this?!" Vox scrambled backward, his hands held up defensively. "Alastor! Stop it! You’re supposed to be… you’re supposed to be insulting me! You’re supposed to be a dick!"
But Alastor couldn't hear him. The barrier was gone. The "Little" side he had been suffocating for a lifetime had just been forcibly dragged to the surface, and it was terrified, overwhelmed, and completely heartbroken. He looked small—impossibly small—in the oversized office chair, his red coat suddenly looking like it was several sizes too big for him.
"It hu-hurts…" Alastor wailed, a fresh wave of tears pouring down his cheeks, smearing the soot and grime from the day. "Mean! You’re being mean! I want… I want—"
Vox’s brain was short-circuiting. He had spent years dreaming of the day he’d finally break the Radio Demon, but he had envisioned a glorious victory, a grand defeat where he stood over a conquered rival. He hadn't planned for this. He hadn't planned for his greatest enemy to turn into a blubbering, distressed child right in front of him.
"I’m mean?" Vox repeated, his voice cracking with a glitch. "I—I’m an Overlord! I’m supposed to be mean! We’re in Hell! Why are you… why are you acting like I just took your favorite toy?!"
Alastor let out another loud, shuddering sob, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The green threads were still unraveling, and with every second, the "Radio Demon" was fading further away, replaced by something soft, defenseless, and utterly shattered.
Vox’s screen went completely static for three full seconds. His internal processors were screaming—a literal high-pitched whine echoing from his speakers. In a world governed by the Classification System, everyone had a label. You were a Caregiver, a Master, a Neutral, a Pet… or you were a Little.
And Alastor? Alastor was the Radio Demon. He was a force of nature. He was supposed to be a Master, or at the very least, a Neutral so cold he’d put a freezer to shame.
A Little? Vox’s mind raced. The Radio Demon is a fucking Little?
It was impossible. It was a glitch in the universe. If the word got out that the most feared Overlord in Hell’s history was a classified Little who had been stitching his own psyche together with forbidden magic just to pass as an adult…
But looking at the shivering, sobbing heap in the chair, Vox couldn't deny the data. The way Alastor was crying, the specific pitch of his distress, the way he was trying to hide his face—it was a textbook "drop." A deep, uncontrolled slide into a headspace he had clearly spent decades avoiding.
"Holy shit," Vox whispered, his screen flickering a dull, flickering grey. "Al… you’re a Little. You’re actually a goddamn Little."
The sight of it—the ropes digging into Alastor’s thin wrists while he wailed like his heart was breaking—suddenly made Vox feel physically ill. Even in Hell, there were certain unspoken rules. You didn't keep a Little in distress bound to a chair. It was… it was wrong. It was a violation of the basic biological code of their society.
"Okay, okay! Jesus, stop crying! I'm—I'm letting you go!"
Vox’s hands were shaking as he reached for the knots. He wasn't even thinking about the "victory" anymore or about all this mess being a theatrical play; he just wanted the sound of that heartbreak to stop. With a few frantic tugs and a spark of electricity to sear through the tougher fibers, the ropes fell away.
"There! You’re free! See? I'm not—"
Vox didn't even finish the sentence.
The moment the last rope hit the floor, Alastor didn't lash out. He didn't summon his staff. Instead, his shadow surged—a dark, ink-like blotch that swallowed him whole. With a terrified yip, the shadow zipped across the floor, faster than Vox’s cameras could track.
Thump.
Vox blinked. The room was silent, save for the faint, muffled sound of hitching breaths coming from the corner.
He looked over. Alastor was gone from the chair, but a pair of tiny, glowing red eyes were peering out from the narrow gap beneath Vox’s heavy, velvet-bottomed sofa.
"Alastor?" Vox took a tentative step forward. "Are you… are you under the couch? Seriously?"
A loud, wet sniffle came from the darkness beneath the furniture. "Go 'way! Mean TV! Go 'way!"
Vox rubbed his screen with one hand, feeling a digital headache forming behind his eyes. "I’m not… I’m not being mean! I let you go! You’re the one who crawled under the furniture like a dusty cat!"
"Mean!" Alastor’s voice was muffled, sounding impossibly small and trembling. "Pushed the chair! Broke my smile! I want my mama!"
Vox froze. Mama? "Oh, boy," Vox muttered, his screen displaying a 'Critical Error' message. "I am so out of my depth here."
Vox stood in the center of his high-tech sanctuary, looking at his expensive velvet sofa as if it had just grown a second head. The most feared entity in Pentagram City—the man who had nearly toppled Overlords and turned Hell into his personal radio show—was currently huddled among the dust bunnies and discarded charging cables.
"Alastor, seriously? This is... this is undignified," Vox started, his voice a frantic mix of static and genuine confusion. "Come on out. I’m not going to... I’m not going to snap any more threads. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to... well, stay dead."
A sharp, wet sniffle echoed from the darkness under the cushions. "No! Go 'way! Mean TV! Scary! Hic... Go 'way!"
Vox rubbed his screen with both hands, his internal cooling fans whirring at maximum capacity. His "Classification" sensors were red-lining. Every instinct in his digital soul was screaming that he had a Little in distress, and as a citizen of Hell, even a cold-hearted mogul like him felt the unnatural, itchy urge to fix it.
"I'm not scary! I'm the most popular face in Hell!" Vox argued, though his tone was softening despite himself. "Look, I'll give you... I don't know, what do Littles like? A tablet? A shiny new V-Phone? Just crawl out so I can see if you're... okay."
"No phone! Too loud! Hurt 'ears!" Alastor’s voice was tiny, stripped of all its theatrical reverb. It was just a trembling, high-pitched plea. "Want mama... want my room... go 'way, Vox-y!"
Vox-y? Vox winced. The nickname felt like a physical glitch. He realized he was getting nowhere. Alastor was terrified, and as long as Vox was "the enemy," that shadow-fortress under the couch was impenetrable.
"Fine! Fine, have it your way!" Vox shouted, throwing his hands up in a gesture of dramatic defeat. "I'm leaving! I've got better things to do than babysit a deer under a sofa anyway. I'm going to my studio, and I'm locking the door! Enjoy the dust!"
Vox stomped toward the heavy, soundproofed exit. He grabbed the handle, swung the door wide, and slammed it shut with a resounding, bone-rattling BOOM.
Except, he was still inside.
He’d stepped to the side at the last second, pressing his back against the cold metallic wall, holding his breath as his screen dimmed to a low-power, dark-mode flicker to remain unnoticed. He stayed perfectly still, his digital eyes watching the sofa from across the darkened room.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
Then, a faint rustle.
A pale, trembling hand reached out from under the velvet fringe, its claws scratching tentatively at the carpet. Then came the ears—usually sharp and alert, now pinned flat against a messy mop of red hair. Alastor peered out, his face streaked with tears and soot, his eyes wide and searching the "empty" room.
Slowly, painfully, he wiggled his way out. Without the green threads to pull his skin taut, his face looked softer, younger, and utterly devastated. His red coat (a little bit oversized now) was bunched up around his shoulders, making him look like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes. He sat on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, looking small and abandoned in the middle of the cold, neon-lit office.
He let out one more shaky, lingering sob, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. "Vox-y gone?" he whispered to the shadows, his lip trembling.
From the wall, Vox felt a strange, uncomfortable pang in his chest—a feeling his software definitely wasn't programmed for.
Vox watched from the shadows, his screen dimmed to a faint, ghostly glow. Seeing Alastor like this—truly seeing him without the jagged edges and the terrifying radio-filtered bravado—was like looking at a completely different person. The "Radio Demon" was gone. In his place sat a shivering, red-clad boy who looked like he was one loud noise away from shattering into a million pieces.
Alastor sat on the plush carpet, his fingers nervously twisting the fabric of his oversized sleeves. He gave another small, wet sniffle, looking around the room with wide, watery eyes.
"All gone," Alastor whispered, his voice a tiny, shaky melody. "No more mean TV."
Vox felt a sharp, digital prick of guilt. He wasn't supposed to feel guilty; he was an Overlord! He was the king of media! But the Classification protocols embedded in every demon’s soul were screaming at him. Seeing a Little in this state—abandoned, frightened, and uncomforted—was causing a literal error message to pulse in the corner of his vision.
He shifted his weight, and his shoe gave a tiny, metallic clink against the floor.
Alastor froze. His deer ears, usually so poised, shot up and twitched toward the sound. He turned his head slowly, his lip already beginning to wobble again.
"Vox-y?"
Vox sighed, his screen brightening back to its usual neon blue as he stepped out from the wall. "Yeah. Still here, Al."
Alastor’s reaction was instantaneous. He let out a sharp, terrified gasp and tried to scramble back toward the sofa, but his long coat got tangled under his knees, and he ended up just tumbling onto his side with a soft oomph.
"You lied!" Alastor wailed, fat tears spilling over his cheeks again. "You said go 'way! You tr-tricked me!"
"Whoa, whoa! Easy! Don't start the waterworks again, please! Enough with the screaming!" Vox groaned, stepping closer. He reached out a hand, trying to be gentle. "Come here, Al. Just—let me help you up."
The moment Vox’s hand touched his shoulder, Alastor flinched as if he’d been burned. He scrambled back, his heels digging into the rug.
"No! Don't touch! No!" Alastor wailed, his voice cracking into a raw, childish shriek. He began to lash out, his hands—usually so poised and lethal—swinging in clumsy, frantic swiping motions. "Go 'way! Bad! You're bad! Broke my smile!"
"Hey! Watch the screen, kid!" Vox barked, dodging a stray fist. Alastor wasn't fighting like an Overlord; he was throwing a full-blown, sensory-overload tantrum. He was sobbing so hard he was starting to choke on his own breath, his face turning a deep, alarming shade of crimson.
Vox realized then that logic wasn't going to work. Commands weren't going to work. He sighed, the blue light of his screen softening into a dim, static-free glow. Without another word, he sat down right there on the floor, ignoring the fact that his custom-tailored suit was getting wrinkled.
"Get over here," Vox muttered, not as a threat, but with a gruff, reluctant sort of weight.
He didn't wait for permission. He reached out and snagged Alastor by the waist, hauling the smaller, struggling demon toward him. Alastor fought for a second, his small hands thumping against Vox’s chest, but Vox just wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a firm, grounding hold.
"Let go! Let go of Al!" Alastor sobbed, his head thrashing against Vox’s shoulder.
"Shut up and breathe, you little idiot," Vox whispered, his voice vibrating with a low, rhythmic hum—a frequency he usually used to calm jittery broadcast signals. He began to run a hand over Alastor’s messy red hair, his claws carefully retracted so he wouldn't scratch the sensitive deer ears. "Just breathe. I've got you. The mean TV isn't doing anything, see? Just sitting here."
Alastor’s struggles began to lose their edge. The frantic kicking slowed to a rhythmic twitch. The weight of Vox’s arms and the steady, artificial hum of his chest were providing the sensory input Alastor’s shattered mind desperately needed.
Slowly, the screams turned into whimpers, and the whimpers turned into deep, shuddering sobs. Finally, Alastor went limp. He collapsed against Vox, burying his face into the crook of the blue-clad neck, his fingers clutching desperately at Vox’s lapels. He cried with a terrifying honesty, soaking Vox’s expensive shirt with hot, messy tears, his entire body heaving with exhaustion.
Vox sat there, leaning his back against the side of the sofa, awkwardly patting Alastor’s back. It was quiet now, save for the sound of Alastor’s hitching breaths and the faint buzz of the monitors.
"There we go," Vox murmured, his screen displaying a soft, pulsing heart-rate monitor icon in the corner. "You’re alright. You’re just a mess, Al. A huge, tiny mess."
Alastor didn't respond with a quip. He just let out a long, shaky sigh and pressed his forehead deeper into Vox’s shoulder, finally letting the "Little" side take the wheel completely.
Vox sat in the heavy silence of his office, the only sound the rhythmic, wet hitch of Alastor’s breathing as the demon finally succumbed to pure, bone-deep exhaustion. The Radio Demon was now just a heavy, warm weight against Vox’s chest, his face tucked hidden against his shoulder like a frightened fawn.
Vox leaned his head back against the sofa, staring up at the flickering neon ceiling. A sudden, jagged thought sliced through his processors, making his screen glitch with a sharp burst of static.
Seventy years.
For seventy goddamn years, he’d chased this man. He’d obsessed over why Alastor looked down on him, why his technology was "distracting noise," why he’d been rejected time and time again. He had spent decades thinking he wasn't enough—that his screens weren't bright enough, his power wasn't grand enough to earn the Radio Demon's respect.
But it hadn't been about Vox at all.
Alastor hadn't been protecting his dignity; he’d been protecting a classification. He hadn't been looking down on the future; he’d been terrified that if he let anyone get too close, the green threads would snap and the world would see the shivering Little hiding behind the broadcast.
A sharp, dry laugh—more of a nervous crackle of electricity—escaped Vox’s speakers.
"You absolute bastard," Vox whispered, a dark, triumphant smirk slowly spreading across his screen. "All that time... you weren't untouchable. You were just scared."
The irony was delicious. The "rivalry" that had defined Vox’s existence was built on a foundation of Alastor’s sheer, unadulterated terror of being found out. It wasn't that Vox was unworthy; it was that Alastor was fragile.
He looked down at the sleeping figure in his arms. Alastor’s ears flickered in his sleep, and he let out a tiny, soft puff of air against Vox’s neck. He looked so defenseless, so utterly stripped of his armor, that it was almost dizzying.
Vox’s smirk sharpened, his blue light washing over Alastor’s red hair. A possessive, predatory heat flared in his circuits. Alastor had spent a lifetime running, but he had run right into the heart of Vox’s empire. And now that Vox knew? Now that the threads were broken?
He wasn't letting him go. Not to the Hotel, not to Charlie, and certainly not back to his lonely radio tower.
"He's mine," Vox thought, his claws gently, almost unconsciously, smoothing down Alastor's hair. "The secret is mine. He is mine."
The problem was that he had absolutely no idea how to actually be a Caregiver. He didn't know about pacifiers, or bedtime stories, or how to handle a Little who was used to be also a high-ranking Overlord with a penchant for cannibalism.
He let out another soft, buzzing chuckle, adjusting Alastor’s weight so he could stand up without waking him.
"Well," Vox murmured, his eyes glowing with a renewed, obsessive focus. "I’ve hacked more complicated systems than a toddler’s brain. One problem at a time, right, Al?"
He stood up, cradling the sleeping Little against his chest, and began to walk toward his private quarters. The broadcast was over. The real show was just beginning.