#fiendwrites

Humming a bright tune as he stepped towards the railing overlooking the floor below, Alastor surveyed the lively atmosphere of the hotel lobby. The day’s commotion had become the new norm—the denizens of Hell were flocking to the hotel, eager for the chance at redemption. At least that was the hope.

After Charlie successfully proved that redemption was indeed possible, she and Vaggi had their hands full attending to the whims of the guests 24/7. Alastor had grown quite accustomed to the days of sorely misguided optimism (mostly from Princess Morningstar) and petty squabbles between the few guests they had managed to wrangle before Vox’s little power grab. Alas. Time marches on.

Alastor’s ears pinned tightly against his skull as Katie Killjoy’s voice blared over the television speakers, interrupting his train of thought. He had half a mind to to skin the insolent hotel resident who insisted on keeping the noisy picture box on at all times, and at max volume no less.

“In other news, Hell’s sexy filmmaker-turned-savior, Valentino, has announced that he and Velvette will be stepping up while our deer-obsessed former CEO is on involuntary sabbatical. VoxTek! We’re still working on a new company name!”

His ears perked up. Well now that was news, perhaps it was about time he paid his old pal a visit. Without another second’s delay, Alastor sunk into the shadows.

Unfortunately Alastor had become well acquainted with the Vees Tower due to the time spent as Vox’s prisoner, except in this case it was fortuitous. Normally, he liked to play with his food—really savor the pain he could inflict on his victims. But Vox was different; after all Alastor essentially antagonized the former during his time as a hostage. Now he could truly bask in his triumph.

Re-materializing from the shadows into Vox’s private quarters, he quickly scanned the scene before him, his face scrunched up in disgust. The room, which was previously immaculately kept, looked to be in disarray—clothes strewn about, drawers and cabinet doors left ajar, not to mention the wads of paper that littered the floor. The slovenly state of the room was presumably one of many consequences from it’s inhabitant’s fall from grace. Apparently losing his head body took a toll on his self-care routine.

As Alastor had learned an age ago, Vox was surprisingly fastidious. While this was likely due to his pathological need to maintain his image of “perfection,” Alastor had simultaneously discovered that Vox was a trifle sensitive to airborne irritants. Referring to the other’s sensitivity as trifle was putting it lightly... so the sinner’s meticulousness was possibly a consequence of both theories.

Alastor stopped dead in his tracks, shock flashing in his eyes that luckily the only individual to possibly bear witness, was merely a head and hadn’t realized his presence. Scratch that, it would seem that some wayward sinner showed mercy on Vox—he was no longer a reverse headless horseman, curled up underneath a duvet and surrounded by a rather excessive number of throws and quilts.

“Now what’s this I hear about a ‘sabbatical’? Surely your little news anchor meant to say self-pity party.” Alastor said, leaning against the wall, appearing to be more interested in his recently repaired staff than whom he was addressing.

“What the—?!” Vox whipped his head in the direction of Alastor’s voice. The manner with which the media overlord (could he still even be called that?) sprung up from his bed in such a way it bore a striking resemblance to that of a frightened feline. If he had fur, Alastor had no doubt it would be standing on end.

“And here I was thinking you were doomed to a body-less existence. Alas, a mere fantasy on my part.”

“Fuck off Alastor,” Vox snarled, a spark between his antennae zipped between them.

“Now now, where are your manners? I thought I taught you better than that, hmm?” Alastor chastised Vox, whipping out his staff, putting nearly his entire weight on it in a way that one might wonder how it hadn’t ever snapped in half before.

Rather than responding, Vox only growled, glaring at Alastor from his bed. How curious.

Normally Vox would already be up in his personal space. Not only had he failed to provide a proper retort, Vox seemed smaller than usual, even with his new body. None of the brash, duplicitous charisma that he typically exuded. Granted he had been knocked down a peg or two recently, so perhaps this was just him “licking his wounds” so to speak.

“hh’DZTCHhiew!”

That would explain his odd behavior. Alastor’s grin widened as Vox sniffled and blinked blearily after the expulsion, “Ah, I take it back. Seems like “sabbatical” might be the correct term here.”

“I’m snfSNF!...ihh–ihhH’ZZTSHH! fine.”

“Excuses and lies, as usual,” Alastor tutted. Unsummoning his staff with a flick of his wrist, he strode to the couch opposite the bed and sat on the edge, observing Vox like he was an exhibit at a zoo.

Vox opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by his immune system’s attempt to fight the pathogen. He muffled a series of staticky coughs into a closed fist. Interestingly enough, he didn’t seem to be addressing his illness as well as one should—aside from the used tissues, which Alastor what he had previously mistaken for wads of paper, there was a scarcity of medicine, remedies, or anything of the sort. In fact, Vox seemed adamant on being shirtless in bed, in spite of the fact that few would even consider an intimate encounter in his current state.

“Have you considered, I don’t know, wearing a sweater or robe given your condition,” Alastor taunted. His smirk made it painfully clear how much delight he took in having front row seats to Vox losing a fight with his malady.

“The last person I’m taking any medical advice or pointers from is you,” Vox shot back gravelly, although his response lacked the bite it usually carried. Though this was likely exacerbated by the breathy, uneven quality his voice gained towards the end of his sentence. 

“hh’NGGXT! ehh’GNXXTCHh! hih...” Vox made an error in judgment trying to hold back the sneezes. His respiratory system was very much unsatisfied with his actions and made it quite clear to him with subsequent false starts before an urgent inhale spelled the end to his limbo. “hh... ihh?...hh–ihh’TCHHhiew! hihh... Are you kihhdding me? ih’KSHHh’uh! ehh–ehDSHHh! Fucking motherfucker!”

Disgusting.Vox never did take proper care of himself when he was under the weather. How could Alastor forget that one incident he showed up at the radio station on the precipice of infecting the entire staff if Alastor hadn’t forcibly dragged him back to his apartment. Or when Vox had learned that unfortunately, yes, one could get sick in Hell. Just another perk of the less desirable afterlife. It seemed like Alastor had to take matters into his own hands again.

In a flash of green light, a steaming mug of tea materialized onto the nightstand. The gesture evidently surprised Vox, whose eyes darted between the summoned object and Alastor himself before squinting suspiciously.

“I’m not fucking drinking that!” Vox spat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll bet it’s laced with some sort of angelic poison.”

“Aha, there are much more entertaining ways to take you out but suit yourself!”

After gaping at the conjured beverage for another minute, Vox’s expression contorted a smug grin as he propped up his rectangular head on his hands. “Admit it, you like me.”

An indignant buzz permeated through the air. “Oh, hardly the case! The initial appeal of you struggling with your symptomatic behavior has overstayed its welcome.” Alastor scoffed, turning his nose up at the accusation. “To maintain my presence and I can do I what I need to do, I deemed it necessary to provide a means of curbing your disgusting but ultimately involuntary conduct.”

Vox’s screen glitched, tendrils of electricity zipping along the exterior as his grin warped into a disgruntled scowl. On the other hand, Alastor’s smile widened at the rise he got out of Vox with his relatively benign response. He was too easy.

He continued to grin patronizingly at Vox, who returned his steely gaze—his hypnotic eye swirled fiercely, as if he was ready to pounce on him if affronted. Although, Alastor would bet his soul (again) that Vox’s current condition wouldn’t prove much of a threat, if at all. And as expected, Vox’s resolve was undermined by his body’s untimely betrayal. The demon curled in on himself with each cough that scraped out of his throat.

Vox finally decided that Alastor wasn’t plotting to kill him with the cup of tea. Raising the mug to his screen, he hesitantly took a sip. Relief washed over his face as the hot liquid soothed his aching throat and the appreciative warble that followed did not escape the Alastor’s impeccable hearing. However, his brow furrowed as an audible hitch hijacked Vox’s breathing. He was forced to delay further ingesting the drink, hurriedly placing it back on the nightstand before capitulating to the familiar prickling behind his screen.

“Fuhhck, not this agaihh–ihh’DZZTCHHh’uh! IZZSHHuu! guhh...” Vox rolled his eyes as his breath caught again, his features becoming hazy. “ehh... hh! Oh come ohhnn–ehh’KSSHhhiew! hh–hh’KZZSHHYyiuu! snnf! eh’TSHH–ihhyTSHHh!” Vox groaned, grabbing a corner of his monitor in an attempt to reduce the dizziness that the fit produced. He reached for the mug once he had a chance to catch his breath. The steam itself seemed to provide some comfort.

While Vox cupped the mug in his claws, Alastor appreciated the uncomfortable but tense silence that hung ominously in the space between them. That is until Vox went and ruined it. Although, all things considered ‘ruined’ was a bit harsh in this context.

“I was serious you know,” Vox mumbled into his mug before taking another sip.

Alastor tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in suspicion and mild curiosity, but said nothing. Vox rolled his eyes, but seeing that he hadn’t been immediately smacked silly by a shadow tentacle took the other’s silence as a sign to keep talking.

“Back then,” Vox gestured vaguely with his free hand, “I envisioned us ruling Hell, side-by-side. People knew us, people liked us—as a team! During my time on Earth I climbed my way to the top by myself. I acted alone; I never imagined wanting to share the spotlight or power with anyone. To share a life with anyone. But then I met you, and—”

Vox’s voice quavered as if he was choking back the memory. He swallowed, wincing at the pain it produced. His screen buffered and for a moment Alastor caught a glimpse of Vox’s expression before it was obscured by the digital complication. He probably imagined it, but it almost looked like grief. It reappeared hardened as he shoved down whatever feelings had bubbled up.

“Well, you know the rest. I have to thank you for that, by the way. You gave me the spark I needed to really make a name for myself, rise through the ranks. Although, I guess I did get a little carried away,” Vox chuckled wryly at his failed attempt to conquer Heaven.

Vox polished off the rest of the tea, setting the mug back down on the nightstand. He grimaced, pressing a hand to his chest as the congestion shifted with the motion. When he spoke again, it was barely audible. So much so that Alastor strained to hear it. “I-I haven’t been back to that bar since that night. I don’t know if you have but.. We used to be regulars and sometimes when I’ve passed by it I just...” Vox trailed off, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck, a spitting image of himself almost 70 years ago. Before he could stop it, Alastor was thrown back into the memory of the night.

It had started off as any usual night of winding down at one of the local bars, following one of their weekly duo segments. Alastor had to hand it to Vox—an annoyingly persistent individual, his idea to implement the joint radio-video broadcast had become more of a sensation than Alastor expected. He had been skeptical at first, but finally caved to the idea with the hope that it would prove such a massive failure that Vox would finally drop it.

Mimzy had asked Alastor why he hadn’t torn Vox to shreds yet and broadcast his screams on his show. “Aren’t you bored of him? He’s like a lost puppy, just take him out already.” She wasn’t wrong to question their... dynamic. Suffice it to say, Alastor was fascinated by the earnest but bizarre budding-Overlord, and decided to let him tag along as long as he held entertainment value.

Nothing more, nothing less.

“You give yourself too much credit, my dear! I scarcely think about you, let alone any such sentimental drivel,” Alastor replied disdainfully, shoving down the retrospection back to the depths of his mind. As to why he wasn’t here to finish off what he started, well there was still fun to be had.

Vox bristled, his right eye twitching something fierce as he looked about ready to start another fight (that he would lose just like he always had). But to Alastor’s surprise, the television demon rapidly deflated, sighing wearily. Vox scoured the middle of his screen peevishly before staring out the window again. After a beat, Vox turned his attention back to him, gazing directly into Alastor’s face, searching for something. “Can’t we drop this whole thing for once?”

His antennae drooped slightly as he continued,“Go back to how things used to be... Just for tonight?”

Alastor blinked, seemingly unfazed by the abrupt shift in Vox’s attitude, his sharp smile remaining unchanged.

“Typical,” Vox sneered when Alastor stayed silent. “I should have known you wouldn’t have anything to say. You didn’t have a fucking heart back then and you sure as hell don’t now.” He dragged a hand down his dimly-lit screen.

“What did you say again? ‘Being a brat is kinda my thing?’”

Vox’s expression scrunched up in what Alastor anticipated was some half-baked comeback, only for him gasp urgently before hastily snapping down into his elbow.

“ahh’KZZSHH! Motherfuhh–hh’DTZZCHhiiew! ihh...hh? h’ehHZTSHH’uhh!”

Vox groaned, flopping back against his pillows as he snuffled into a cluster of tissues. Ew. A cyan flush streaked across his face when he inadvertently made eye contact with Alastor. His eyes glowed crimson at the display. Oh how emotional attachment could muddle the mind. Tossing the used material into the near full trash can, Vox pulled the blankets up to his chin as a shiver coursed through his frame.

“You called me a creep but here you are just hanging around—” Vox said derisively, through narrowed eyes. He paused to stifle a yawn behind a loose fist. “And getting off to my suffering. You’re no better than the rest of us.” Alastor had remained perched neatly on the couch since his arrival, maintaining a generous berth between them. A decision made mostly because he knew it would irritate Vox, but partially due to the other’s ailment. He looked even more pathetic than usual—swaddled in blankets, shaking like a leaf, the cyan glow diffused indicative of more than just embarrassment.

One might even consider it endearing.

“Sweetheart we’re both demons in Hell, and Overlords to boot. We aren’t here by mistake. Plus, suffering is simply entertainment in it’s purest form! I would be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t take advantage of your incapacitation!” Alastor exclaimed brandishing his staff for emphasis.

The radio demon’s eyes narrowed when his snide remark was met with silence. Vox rarely failed to match, or rather attempt to, his barbs. He never could quite keep up with Alastor’s wit. He was about taunt him again when a low, congested snore cut through the stillness. Figures.

Alastor watched Vox’s chest steadily rise and fall, savoring the tranquil moment—an anomalous occurrence in Hell, but even more so between the two diametrically opposed demons. His gaze drifted towards Vox’s screen, which was so dark enough that Alastor initially thought it was powered off. He did a double take when it flickered. Curiosity got the best of him and before he had a chance to second guess himself, he was looming directly over the TV-headed sinner. Vox’s eyes were closed, but his furrowed brow and tight grimace indicated that whatever virus he had picked up was putting him through the ringer.

The faint buzz emanating from Vox’s antennae was hypnotic, lulling him into what could best be described as a trance. It was oddly soothing.

Perhaps he had been too harsh on Vox back then. He always figured that Vox’s business proposal was a ploy to use Alastor as a rung on the Overlord ladder in his quest for power. After all, wasn’t their collaborative segment just the tip of the iceberg? But now he was saying that hadn’t been the case at all. Had he truly misconstrued the interaction that led to the end of their... connection, giving rise to their decades long rivalry? Plus, it’s not like Rosie would have permitted such an entanglement—

He instinctively raised his hand to his neck; only to let remember that he was finally free from the accursed shackles that he had entered Hell with. Alastor leered at Vox contemptuously. He still reeked of desperation, relying on those around him, leveraging his silver tongue to manipulate his way to the top of the food chain. And yet, he had to admit that amidst all of his incessant peacocking, for a moment Vox had garnered Alastor’s respect. Not unlike the respect Alastor once held for him.

An unsettling feeling stirred in his chest—was it nostalgia? No... contrition? Ha!—definitely not. Possibly something else that he dared not to consider. Stepping away from the slumbering demon, he shook his head to clear the absurd ruminations. Nonsense.

“It's too late for that, John.” Kate's tinny, clipped voice filtered down the landline receiver in Captain Jonathan Price's cramped office. The phone clutched between his ear and shoulder as he fought to not grind his teeth.

The large man slowly rested back into his worn leather chair as he went through the motions of preparing a much needed cigar. Of course, Kate Laswell would know about his team's plight before he even got around to properly asking her for assistance. Brows pinching together, “... meaning?” he exasperated, cockney tone equally as clipped.

“You've pushed the board past their breaking point, John. This is the seventh GOOD medic that's requested a transfer out of your team... Did you think they would turn an eye forever?” The rather tired Station Chief held no hands as she laid John's predicament out to the man.

“I've kept them at bay for as long as I could, but you know every unit needs a dedicated medic. You can't expect me to convince the higher ups that dedicated field care isn't a requirement of highly trained task forces. They want their assets taken care of for as long as possible.” The woman sighed as John lit the end of his cigar and listened. One thing he'd learned to do quickly into his military was to know when to keep his mouth shut. This is one of those times.

John could only manage a grunt in reply as he took in a mouthful of smoke and braced, a hair's breath, into his chair. Of course, he knew that he couldn't keep his men hidden from the demands of the higher-ups forever. Knew they wouldn't stand for the unit's break in protocol and regularity. But the part of him that wasn't the Captain, that wasn't the hardened soldier, had hoped they had had more time.

He can practically hear the woman roll her eyes through the phone as he fails to provide a proper response. “... Clarke, I can understand, John. He was too bullheaded to handle Ghost on the best of days, but Taafee was an exceptional soldier and a top-tier medic! What could your men and you POSSIBLY be doing to make them fold in under a month!? A month, John! That's not even enough time to properly acclimate to base.” Kate doesn't relent in her questioning of her, typically collected, colleague behaving like... like such a schoolboy.

As concerned and perplexed as John feigned to be for his superiors, he couldn't convince Kate that he didn't know how his men were pushing out medic after medic. No. Kate had known him for too long, worked with him for too long to convince her that he didn't know how his own men operated. Taking a drag of his cigar, John released a rush of air and smoke through his nose as if he were some dissatisfied dragon. If he were truly honest with himself and Kate, he would acknowledge that his boys, and him included, often drifted into their own small universe together.

Sometime after all of them had sat down and finally had ‘the talk’ regarding their budding relationships with one another, Gaz and Soap having had to drag the other two into doing so, John had realized that they all were drawn to one another. Not just in the sense that their highly specialized set of military skills drew them all together. No. They sought one another out after hours of training recruits, between practice at the gun range and dinner in the mess hall, when reports were due and they didn't quite feel like being alone while rushing to write it, and when there was just nothing left to do for the day.

Whether his boys noticed themselves, well, he wasn’t completely sure. But he'd noticed the team unintentionally forgetting about the string of additions to the taskforce over the last year and a half. Unless it was directly related to the assignment set before them, they all still gravitated around one another. Having built orbits circling each other as their intimacy grew and having functioned as a four person task force for years made it hard for them to remember to include new additions to the team.

Some part of John wished it was something more petty, that it was something he could easily correct but… this was purely unintentional.

The team had its habits, not that that would be a justifiable reason for Kate. “You know how the lads are, Kate, bullheaded. The whole lot of ‘em. The soldiers they've sent over just haven't meshed right with the team,” he replied stiffly, like the words didn't feel right coming off his tongue. An uneasy silence settled between them as the call turned into a quiet standoff, both of them waiting for, hoping, the other to give in and comply.

“Mesh right?” Kate questioned incredulously, tone skirting the realm of chastising, “It shouldn't matter if they mesh well! You're all trained professionals. What matters is if they can save your lives.”

”We can save ourselves, ‘don't need a bloody medic to compress a wound or use a disinfectant packet.” John managed to defend between puffing on his cigar. His free hand drummed an agitated beat along his desk.

A short bark of a laugh comes down the line from Kate, both of them well aware of how paperthin his rebuttal was. “John. A medic would have stopped Soap's head wound in Los Almas from being so touch and go.” The American says flatly but not unkind. The unfiltered reminder of Soaps’ almost death rattling him in a way he hadn't expected. Conversation dying up on his tongue.

They had dealt with Johnny almost dying on them during the fiasco that was the Los Almas joint assignment. Ghost and Gaz had been inconsolable, Christ. He'd been barely able to hold it together between attending debriefings and staying vigil outside Soap's hospital room. And now they were finally settling back into their old rhythm only for it to be upheaved.

As the silence lay between them once more, Kate continued, “I won’t sugar coat it, John..” Not that she ever sugar coated anything in the years he’d known Laswell, “... the Brass is at its wits end with the sheer amount of medics that have transferred out of the task force. So much so that there is talk of disbanding the 141 until one of your boys is certified as a field medic..” The implications of that hanging between them, thick and cloying in John’s lungs like the cigar smoke already there. That would entail one of them being sent off to receive their nursing degree at a civilian university… meaning they would be disbanded for at least three years… four to five if he factored in the shadowing done in active hospitals. Enough time for the Brass to reason that the 141 wasn't needed anymore once one of the men had the education. Enough time to divide his lovers into new units and away from one another permanently. His mind spiraled through possible outcomes, none of them realistically positive.

“Kate…” John started in, about to ask for even a sliver of assistance, something to give him time to find a way out of the situation. Only to be cut off by Laswell as she offered a proverbial hand, "That's why you’re going to accept my recommendation for a medic with no complaints,” it was firm, an offer out of the hole he had let his team dig, that he couldn't refuse.

John's mouth opened as if he was going to quip back, but his voice fell short. This wasn't the time to have a proverbial dick measuring contest with his colleagues over who was going to take control of the situation. Chewing on his ego, he acquiesced, “Alright… send over their file.” Putting his men above his pride, he listens as Kate hums pleasantly and informs him that his new medic will be there in two weeks. Two weeks to somehow convince them all that this is what they needed, whether they truly wanted it or not.

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