DIVINE JUDGEMENT

Vox's broken Antenna Origin Story 📺 based on that popular meme 😂

Sketched it for alvoxweek2026 ! Day 1: Past

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○○○○○ | ATTRACTION ○○○○○ | AFFECTION ○○○○○ | INTEREST ○○○○○ | LOYALTY ○○○○○ | TRUST

Yeahhh

He stands rigid at the edge of the obsidian table, claws flexing slowly against its surface. The stone hisses faintly under the pressure. “I want him brought in.”

A pause. Not for effect—he’s containing something.

“That… thing.” His lip curls, revealing far too many teeth. “That fucking television-headed parasite.” The air flickers with heat. A nearby imp flinches and quickly pretends not to exist.

Satan’s tail lashes once, sharp enough to crack like a whip. “He hijacks a broadcast, makes a spectacle of us—of you—and I’m supposed to what? Sit here? Smile? Let the masses laugh?” His eyes burn brighter, fixed now on Lucifer.

“I say we drag him in front of the table. Strip away the signal, the smug little persona, all of it.” His voice lowers further, turning precise. Surgical. “And then we decide if he’s worth the effort of continuing to exist.” The chamber seems to lean inward with the weight of it.

A slow grin creeps across Satan’s face, cruel and anticipatory. “Personally,” he adds, almost conversationally, “I’d like to see what’s left of him when the screen finally goes dark.” Silence follows.Waiting. Watching. For Lucifer’s answer.

A soft, almost inappropriate laugh breaks the silence.

“Wow,” Beelzebub drawls, leaning back in her chair like this is dinner theater instead of a potential execution. One leg swings lazily over the other, golden eyes glittering with amusement. “You are really mad about this.” She props her chin in her hand, watching Satan like he’s the main event.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong—” she gestures vaguely, as if summarizing Vox’s offense with a flick of her fingers, “—super disrespectful, totally chaotic, very ‘I have a death wish.’”

Another small laugh slips out, lighter this time, but edged. “But also?” She tilts her head, curls bouncing slightly. “Kind of iconic.”

Her gaze drifts to Lucifer now, sharp beneath the playful exterior. “Hijacking Hell’s airwaves, poking the Morningstar brand, stirring up all that delicious panic?” She hums. “That’s not just stupidity. That’s strategy… or insanity. Trying to take over heaven.

She straightens slightly, the air around her shifting—still warm, still indulgent, but no longer careless.

“I’m not saying don’t punish him,” she adds, voice smoother now, more deliberate. “I’m just saying… if you’re going to make a spectacle out of this, make it worth watching.”

A slow grin spreads across her face. “Interrogation?” she echoes, glancing back at Satan. “Sure. But don’t just tear him apart right away.” Her eyes gleam. “Let him talk. Let him perform. See what he thinks he’s built for himself before you rip the plug.”

She taps her fingers lightly against the table, rhythmic, almost like a beat only she can hear.

“YOU—” Satan’s roar tears through everything, fire erupting as he lunges forward.

“Oh, that’s him?!” Beelzebub snaps at the same time, half-rising, eyes lighting with sharp, offended interest. “That’s the one who ate power he couldn’t handle?!”

“OH, THIS IS JUST—NO.”

Mammon shoves his way forward into the chaos, pointing aggressively at Vox like he’s about to tear him apart in a boardroom instead of a battlefield.

“You—you—” he sputters, almost offended he even has to address him directly. “Do you have any idea what you just pulled?!”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“That wasn’t a power move—that was a liability!” Mammon snaps, pacing now, voice rising with every step. “You hijack the most valuable asset in Hell, no acquisition strategy, no risk assessment, no exit plan—just grab it and pray?”

He throws his hands up.

“That’s not dominance, that’s amateur hour!”

Mammon leans in sharply, jabbing a finger toward Vox’s flickering screen.

“You don’t steal a brand like that—you leverage it. You negotiate. You position yourself so when you take it, it looks intentional.” His lip curls. “What you did? Sloppy. Loud. Unsustainable.”

He circles, shaking his head like he’s personally insulted.

“And don’t even get me started on execution—” he continues, gesturing wildly now. “You couldn’t maintain control, couldn’t stabilize output, and now look at you—dragged in here, signal glitching, about five seconds away from getting liquidated!”

A sharp, humorless laugh.

“Congratulations,” Mammon sneers. “You didn’t just fail—you failed publicly.”

He stops in front of Vox again, eyes narrowing, voice dropping into something colder.

“You know what we call that where I’m from?”

A beat.

“Bad business.”

His grin sharpens—predatory, final.

“And bad business doesn’t get corrected.”

Another beat.

“It gets erased.”

Leviathan doesn’t raise their voice—but it cuts through anyway, cold and precise: “Signal instability. Degradation under pressure. Interesting—he’s already failing.”

“Talk?!” Mammon scoffs, circling like he’s already pricing out the damage. “He owes compensation before he gets a word in!”

Ozzie’s voice slides in, calm but firm—almost drowned out by the rest. “You’re all missing the point—”

“No,” Leviathan interrupts smoothly, eyes locked on Vox, “we’re circling it.”

Another snore.

Louder.

Satan’s flames surge higher.

“I AM NOT LETTING HIM SPEAK—”

“Oh, you’re absolutely letting him speak,” Beelzebub shoots back, grinning now, something feral creeping in. “I want to taste the logic.”

Mammon points aggressively. “If he says one thing that even sounds like justification, I’m billing him for it—”

Ozzie exhales sharply. “Can we—”

" NO!" Satan roars.

“OH, I KNOW YOU AREN’T JUST GOING TO SIT THERE—”

Beelzebub’s voice slams into the room, cutting straight through the noise as she surges forward, wings flaring wide. Whatever playful edge she had before is gone—burned out, replaced with something sharp, visceral, and loud.

“You took it?!” she snaps, pointing at Vox like she might actually lunge next. “You didn’t earn it, didn’t build up to it, didn’t even understand it—you just stuffed yourself full of something that wasn’t yours?!”

Satan’s flames roar beside her—

—and she matches the intensity.

“That’s not power, that’s overconsumption!” she yells, pacing now, energy spiraling, volatile. “You don’t just grab something that rich and choke it down like you’re trying to prove a point!”

Her eyes blaze, locking onto Vox’s glitching screen.

“You wasted it!”

The word cracks like a whip.

“All that potential, all that flavor, all that weight—and you turned it into some cheap, flashy meltdown?!” she continues, voice rising, almost overlapping Satan’s fury now. “That’s disgusting!”

She steps closer—too close—heat and pressure building as her presence crowds in.

“You didn’t just cross a line,” she snarls, “you ruined the experience.”

Satan slams Vox harder into the ground—

Beelzebub doesn’t even flinch.

“If you’re going to take something that big,” she snaps, gesturing wildly, “you handle it. You savor it. You respect it—”

Her lip curls.

“Not binge it like some desperate idiot who doesn’t know when to stop!”

Another step forward, voice peaking—

“So no, I don’t care what he says—”

She jabs a finger downward.

“—because whatever explanation he has? It’s already unsatisfying.”

The air feels thick, suffocating, overloaded—

Satan and her now yelling at once, fire and excess colliding, neither backing down, neither lowering their voice. Bee and the Lord of wrath screaming at the top of their voices at him while Mammon is yelling about bad business still

Here’s the moment pushed to full overload—Wrath, Gluttony, and Greed all crashing together at once: It stops being a confrontation.

It becomes a storm.

“YOU DON’T GET TO TOUCH THAT KIND OF POWER—” Satan roars, flames detonating outward as his grip tightens, cracking the floor deeper beneath Vox.

“—AND YOU DON’T GET TO WASTE IT—” Beelzebub screams over him at the exact same time, her voice just as loud, just as furious, the air around her thick and suffocating with excess.

Their voices collide—overlap—fight for dominance.

Neither yields.

“YOU CAGED HIM—”

“YOU CONSUMED HIM—”

“YOU STOLE WHAT WASN’T YOURS—”

“AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN DO IT RIGHT—”

Fire lashes violently across the chamber as Satan’s rage spikes again, heat distorting everything in reach.

Beelzebub surges forward another step, wings flaring, energy spiraling outward in waves that feel like drowning in too much of everything at once.

“THAT WASN’T POWER, THAT WAS GLUTTONY WITHOUT CONTROL!” she snaps.

“THAT WAS A DECLARATION OF WAR!” Satan fires back, louder.

“IT WAS PATHETIC!”

“IT WAS SUICIDAL!”

“IT WAS WASTEFUL!”

“IT WAS UNFORGIVABLE!”

“IT WAS BAD BUSINESS!!”

Mammon’s voice cuts in—just as loud, just as aggressive, shoving into the chaos like it belongs there.

He’s pacing, ranting, pointing, completely unwilling to be drowned out.

“NO STRUCTURE, NO STRATEGY, NO LONG-TERM GAIN—JUST A STUPID, HIGH-RISK GRAB WITH ZERO RETURN—” he shouts, gesturing wildly at Vox like he’s presenting a failed quarterly report. “YOU DON’T HIJACK A MARKET LIKE THAT AND EXPECT TO WALK AWAY—”

Satan slams Vox down again—

“YOU DON’T WALK AWAY AT ALL!”

“YOU DON’T BINGE POWER LIKE THAT AND EXPECT IT TO HOLD—” Beelzebub yells over him, voice cracking with sheer intensity. “YOU CHOKED ON IT!”

“YOU CRASHED YOUR OWN VALUE!” Mammon adds, furious.

“YOU SHOULD BE ASH—”

“YOU SHOULD BE EMPTY—”

“YOU SHOULD BE BANKRUPT—”

Their voices stack.

“DISGUSTING—BAD—BUSINESS!!”

Mammon’s voice cuts through the overlapping screams like a blaring alarm, somehow louder, sharper, more grating than everything else stacked on top of it.

He storms forward, shoving into the edge of Satan’s inferno and Beelzebub’s suffocating pressure without a second thought, completely committed to the rant.

“Do you even HEAR yourself?!” he shouts, pointing wildly at Vox, rings flashing. “You hijack a premium asset, you mismanage it, you burn through it like you’ve got infinite backing—and then you crash?!”

Satan snarls over him—

“HE DOESN’T GET TO CRASH—”

“—HE DOESN’T GET TO OPERATE LIKE THAT!” Mammon snaps right back, not even looking at him. “That’s not how power works, that’s not how markets work—that’s not how anything works!”

Beelzebub’s voice slams in from the other side—

“HE DIDN’T EVEN ENJOY IT RIGHT—”

“EXACTLY!” Mammon barks, seizing on it instantly, jabbing a finger toward her before whipping back to Vox. “Wasteful AND incompetent—worst combination possible!”

He leans in, furious, voice dropping just enough to sharpen—

“You didn’t just steal something valuable,” he growls. “You devalued it.”

A beat—

Then he explodes again, louder than before:

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THAT DOES TO A SYSTEM?!”

Satan slams Vox harder into the ground—

“HE’S ABOUT TO FIND OUT—”

“NO, HE ALREADY DID!” Mammon fires back, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “THIS—” he gestures violently to the entire room, the destruction, the pressure, the fury— “—THIS IS THE CORRECTION!”

His lip curls in disgust.

“This is what happens,” he spits, “when someone runs a disgusting, unsustainable, idiotic excuse for a power grab!”

He points down at Vox one last time, voice dripping with contempt:

“You’re not a disruptor.”

A beat.

“You’re a loss.”

“I SAY WE KILL HIM.”

Satan doesn’t shout it.

He growls it.

And somehow, that’s worse.

The words cut through everything—through Mammon’s rant, through the lingering echo of Beelzebub’s outrage—clean, final, absolute.

His claws press down harder.

The stone beneath Vox splits.

Flames coil tighter around Satan’s arm, no longer explosive—focused. Controlled. Ready.

“He’s not a threat,” Satan continues, voice low, lethal, each word deliberate. “He’s a mistake.”

A beat.

“And I correct mistakes.”

Beelzebub’s wings twitch, energy still crackling off her in uneven waves. “Honestly?” she snaps, still heated, pacing tight circles. “At this point he’s already ruined the experience—”

Mammon cuts back in immediately, refusing to be sidelined. “No, no, no—you don’t just kill him—” he gestures sharply, already recalculating, “—you make it visible. You make it clear what happens when someone pulls a stunt like this—”

Satan doesn’t even look at him.

“I’m not running a lesson,” he says flatly.

His grip tightens again.

“I’m ending a problem.”

“—KILL HIM! KILL HIM—KILL HIM!”

Beelzebub’s voice cuts through the chamber, loud, sharp, and relentless—not measured outrage anymore, not even anger—

This is momentum.

She’s grinning now, wide and feral, wings flaring as she starts pacing faster, energy spiking with every word.

“KILL HIM! KILL HIM—C’MON, DO IT—”

Her chant falls into rhythm, almost playful in cadence—but there’s nothing light about it. It feeds the room, feeds the fire, feeds the violence already coiling tight around Satan’s grip.

“KILL HIM! KILL HIM—”

She claps once, sharply, like she’s kicking off a show.

“—END IT! HE BLEW IT!”

Mammon lets out a bark of laughter, half-agreeing, half-appalled. “Okay, I’m not saying you’re wrong—”

Satan doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t move.

But the flames tighten.

Focus.

Beelzebub leans in closer, eyes locked on Vox, voice dropping just enough to turn vicious.

“You had your moment,” she sneers. “And you wasted it.”

Then, louder again—right back into the chant, escalating it:

“KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!”

It’s no longer just a suggestion.

It’s a pulse in the room.

A rhythm of violence.

And Beelzebub is more than happy to conduct it.

“YOU DIDN’T EVEN THINK ABOUT BRANDING IT—YOU JUST TOOK HIM?!”

Mammon’s voice cuts through the chaos like a siren, loud, sharp, and absolutely incredulous.

He throws his hands up, pacing in tight, furious circles like he’s seconds away from combusting.

“No rollout, no messaging, no positioning—nothing?!” he snaps, jabbing a finger toward Vox. “You had access to the single most recognizable power structure in Hell and your plan was what—wing it?!”

Satan snarls over him, flames surging—

“HE DOESN’T GET A PLAN—HE GETS ENDED—”

“NO, HE GETS CRITIQUED FIRST—” Mammon fires right back, not even looking at him. “Because this? This is offensive!”

He leans in closer to Vox, eyes blazing with a different kind of fury—calculating, disgusted.

“You don’t just hijack a name like Morningstar and do nothing with it!” he continues, voice rising again. “You build narrative! You control perception! You make people believe it was always yours—”

His expression twists.

“But no—you went loud, messy, unsustainable—no identity, no consistency—just a cheap grab for attention that collapsed the second pressure hit!”

Beelzebub laughs harshly over his shoulder. “He couldn’t even handle it—”

“OF COURSE HE COULDN’T—HE DIDN’T PACKAGE IT!” Mammon snaps.

He straightens, gesturing wildly like he’s presenting the worst case study of his life.

“This is why amateurs fail!” he barks. “You don’t respect the product, you don’t understand the market, and then you wonder why everything crashes down around you!”

A sharp, furious breath.

Mammon points at Vox one more time, voice dropping into something cold and cutting

“You didn’t just steal power.”

A beat.

“You mismanaged it.”

His lip curls.

“And that?”

Another beat.