Staticsilence is so tastyâŠâŠ imagine a s3 where Vox moves on, he has hit rock bottom and he finally realizes that in order to get better he has to let go of his obsession with AlastorâŠâŠ. except that no one told ALASTOR this is over. Excuse me, where is his 70 year standing reliable source of entertainment? Sure, their last exchange has been a bit more intense than the others, but surely Vox wouldnât just chicken out like that, would he?
Vox doesnât respond to his public taunts, he doesnât materialize as soon as he calls him. Alastor reasons thatâs to be expected, after all Vox just lost his entire body and it will take a while for him to get strong enough to fight him again, he should at least save face if thatâs all he has left! But donât his walks feel a little more dull now that he doesnât have any prying cameras to jam with his radio waves? Vox doesnât need a body for that, but they have stopped following him all the same. Sure, slaughtering the more daring sinner who forgets to hide when they see him is still fun, but not really a challenge.
Hatred has always been a very easy emotion to draw from, but now when he thinks of Vox thereâs also a sort of malaise spoiling the whole ordeal. He wouldnât call it sadness per se, more like a⊠feeling of disappointment. That Vox would actually desert their decades long game because of one (albeit wondrous, extravagant and hilarious!) fiasco. He had never pinpointed Vox as a sore loser.
Rather, he had, but wasnât that half the fun?
Undoubtedly he has better things to do than worry about some walking HR violation he sometimes found mildly entertaining, he is free for the first time in almost a century and he has enough power to subdue the whole of hell at his fingertips. He focuses on that, starts to set his plans into motion⊠except that for some reason the thought of Vox pesters him like a mosquito you just canât squash. It distracts him, and thatâs not good. Not when heâs so close to winning.
So he just sits with it; this buzzing in his ears. Something he doesnât quite understand has clawed its way up from the depths of his gut, like a not-quite-dead dinner, except this thing is new, or not new but only now revealed, still covered in dust and grime from its hiding place somewhere in Alastorâs subconscious. He doesnât know what to do with it, this poisonous thing made of bile and teeth that somehow carries the phantom smell of whiskey and cigarettes.
And maybe eventually he will realize that thing is love, or what is left of it, and that it has been there, traitorously getting its fingerprints over his smiles and his memories all the way back to seventy years ago. Curious how what comes so easily to others festers and rots inside of Alastor, but after all, thatâs a tale as old as time.
Vox has gotten out, gotten better. Hell, he might even get redeemed if he continues like that. Alastor should have known they were never the same.
He looks at what he is left with, its black, sticky ink staining his rugs, and he feels a little growl in his stomach.
He thinks he will eat his heart out.
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