Chapter Text
Hungry
1950s Hell
Vox felt his soul finally muster up the strength to reform with the kind of internal vibration that promised two things he hated: unbearable pain and hunger.
His soul returned to being without fanfare, exactly where he’d ceased to be last: a busy street’s busier sidewalk, near the center city. Vox blinked blearily, then twitched his fingers. It took a moment for his body to remember to obey him, but he eventually shoved his legs straight and rose. He stumbled a bit, but avoided stumbling into anyone, which was a good start.
Vox grimaced and stumbled forward, his gait straightening as he kept on up the street. So, he was back. He felt sick thinking about it, but—this was the fourth time he’d reformed in less than two weeks. Not only was that pathetic—that kind of speed with reformation showed just how weak his soul was, but it also showed just how bad he was at protecting himself—but it was dangerous.
He hadn’t had the time to get a proper job, which meant he had no money.
Vox hadn’t eaten in two weeks.
He grimaced, following the flow of traffic. His stomach ached, and he needed to eat. If he didn’t, he’d wither away and die like that, and then when he reformed, he'd be even hungrier than he was now. Vox didn’t clutch at his stomach. Broadcasting hunger was broadcasting intent to steal, and that just meant asking to get killed. Again.
Vox walked, following crowds until it emptied out into a square. The place was lined with sellers—food stands, mostly, but a few places selling useless, but pretty trinkets. Vox’s eyes flicked back and forth, trying to spot any demon who had money in easy reach. Pickpocketing wasn’t a skill he’d ever thought he’d have to hone—and he still sucked at it, to be honest—but he could run fast, which was the most important part of the whole thing.
His stomach twisted, a low growl echoing through him like faulty radio static. Vox pressed a clawed hand against it, forcing his back straight as he joined the stream of pedestrians. Broadcasting hunger was dangerous. Hunger meant desperation, and desperation meant you were prey.
He kept his pace steady, letting the crowd carry him toward the open square. Vendors had set up stalls under crooked awnings, selling skewered meat and roasted vegetables, things that smelled so good they made his screen flicker faintly from sensory overload. The air shimmered with grease and cheap perfume.
Vox’s eyes scanned the crowd — not for food, but for opportunity.
Pickpocketing was a skill he’d never imagined he’d stoop to. It was dirty, beneath him. But Hell wasn’t exactly built for pride. And Vox had learned the hard way that starving gracefully still ended in the same grave.
His gaze caught on movement — a demon in red, standing by one of the stalls. Tall, clean-cut, dressed with old-fashioned precision that somehow didn’t read as dated. A sharp smile under sharper eyes. A cane in one hand, a paper bag of something fried in the other.
Red suit. Plaid vest. Antlers.
But Vox didn’t see the horns. Not yet.
He saw the glint of coins as the stranger pulled out his wallet.
Vox’s claws twitched.
It wasn’t much — a slip of movement, a dip of his shoulder, one careful bump. Sleight of hand, fast and practiced. He felt the cold weight of coins hit his palm. Smooth. Seamless. He turned, ready to vanish into the crowd—
“Now, now.”
The voice stopped him dead.
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The sound curled through the air like smoke, old and amused.
Vox froze. His screen flickered, static crawling the edges as the realization hit. The red suit. The smile. The cane.
Oh, no.
He didn’t even look back — just ran.
The crowd blurred, colors streaking past. Vox shoved through bodies, his scarf whipping behind him. A laugh followed him — bright, too bright, radio-tuned and wrong — chasing him down the street like a song.
He didn’t dare look back again.
It felt like miles before he ducked into a narrow alley, lungs burning, static pulsing in his ears. He clutched the coins to his chest, panting, chest flickering with faint interference. The sound of the crowd faded, replaced by the low hum of city static and dripping pipes.
He’d done it.
Vox leaned against the wall, trembling with adrenaline and hunger. He’d actually gotten away. From the Radio Demon, no less.
He stared at the coins in his palm — they glowed faintly red, like they remembered their owner. He didn’t care. He bolted toward the next food stand, nearly fumbling them onto the counter. The vendor gave him a look — half suspicion, half apathy — and slid over a stick of kebabs dripping with fat.
Vox snatched it and walked fast, away from the street, away from witnesses. He didn’t stop until the sounds of laughter and traffic were far behind him.
The alley he chose was narrow and dark, lined with trash bins and old posters peeling from the brick. It stank of smoke and rot. Perfect.
He crouched down, kebabs still steaming in his hands. The smell hit him so hard it made his eyes sting behind the glass of his screen.
He didn’t even wait.
He bit down hard, teeth tearing into the meat, grease running down his chin. It didn’t matter that it was cheap or probably made of something barely edible. It was food. Warm. Real.
And then — footsteps.
He froze, half-chewed meat caught in his throat.
Three shadows fell across the alley mouth. Big. Heavy. The kind that walked with the swagger of men who liked hurting things.
“Well, look what we got here,” one drawled. His voice was slick, ugly. “Lil’ thief eatin’ off someone else’s work.”
Vox’s stomach dropped. He didn’t answer. His claws tightened around the stick.
Another stepped forward — tall, broad-shouldered, wings folded tight against his back. His grin was all teeth. “Ain’t polite to steal from locals, pal.”
“I—” Vox started, voice crackling faintly. How could they know he stole? One mental glance at his starved expression answered that. But why would these people care? “I paid for this.”
The third laughed — a sharp bark that made his chest tighten. “Yeah? With what, your good looks?”
Laughter echoed off the brick.
Vox forced himself upright, still clutching the kebab, though his hands shook. He was weak — his body still half-mended, his circuits still raw from reforming. He wouldn’t win a fight.
“Look,” he said, voice even. “I don’t want trouble.”
“Too late.”
They moved closer, slow, savoring the fear. The leader glanced at the food, then back to Vox. “We’ll take that.”
Vox hesitated. His stomach twisted.
He wanted to say no. He wanted to say please. He wanted to disappear.
He extended the kebab, but his claws didn’t unclench.
The leader snatched it—and dropped it deliberately into the dirt.
The stick hit the ground with a wet thud, meat rolling into the grime.
Vox’s breath hitched. “You—”
The man grinned wider. “Oops.”
The others laughed.
The air turned hot, too tight. Vox’s vision stuttered with static. He could hear his pulse in his ears, his chest glitching like bad reception.
He backed up until his shoulders hit the wall. His claws flexed uselessly at his sides.
The leader leaned close, voice dropping low. “Y’know, you got a pretty face for a thief.”
Something cold slid through Vox’s chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
He knew that tone.
“Maybe we teach you a lesson,” another said, voice lazy and cruel. “Or maybe we just take what we want.” The leader leaned closer, mouth forming slow, menacing shapes. “Yeah, how ‘bout we take you. You’re cute. Nervous, omega material. Split you open—shame to use the alley, but it’ll do. Whaddaya say, hm?”
His body locked up. His brain screamed move, move, but the static drowned it out.
His brain offered up the rational answer: If he said yes, it wasn’t wrong. It was just—a trade. He told himself—if he played along, if he stayed still—it didn’t count. It didn’t mean anything. It was just survival.
He told himself that—
A sound split the air.
A hum. Low, building. The alley filled with a faint, warbling tune, like an old radio finding signal.
The three men froze.
Vox blinked, heart hammering.
Then came the voice. Cheerful. Polite. Wrong.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
The alley seemed to warp around the sound. The air shimmered red.
Alastor stepped into view, smile wide, eyes bright. His suit immaculate, shoes spotless despite the grime. He twirled his cane once, resting it against his shoulder. “I do hope I’m not interrupting supper?”
The leader’s grin faltered. “Who the hell are—”
The rest of the question dissolved into static.
It was fast — impossibly fast. One second the Radio Demon stood still, the next there was blood on the brick, a gurgle, a scream cut short.
Vox flinched back, sliding down the wall as the second man’s head hit the ground beside him. His stomach lurched, but not from fear — from hunger.
The smell hit him again, meat and iron and grease, and his brain cracked under it.
He saw the kebabs on the ground. Dirty. Ruined.
He picked them up anyway.
His claws shook as he tore into them, not caring about the dirt or blood or anything else. His throat worked desperately, swallowing like something half-starved.
He barely heard the last body hit the pavement.
Silence fell. The only sound was the soft buzz of his own static and the faint, fading hum of the Radio Demon’s laughter.
Vox finished the last bite, chest heaving, hands filthy. He looked up—
And met Alastor’s eyes.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Vox’s screen flickered faintly, dim red pulsing behind the glass. Alastor tilted his head, grin never quite reaching his eyes.
“My, my,” the Radio Demon said softly. “A thief with an appetite.”
Vox swallowed hard, throat raw. He couldn’t tell if Alastor was amused or dangerous. Both, maybe.
“Did they force you?” Alastor asked, voice still too bright. “Poor dear. Terrible company you’ve found yourself in.” Vox could have told him he wasn’t forced, but—what was the point of that? His brain wasn’t stupid enough to favor honesty over survival, morals be damned.
Vox opened his mouth. No sound came out.
Static hissed instead.
He didn’t try again.
He took one shaky step backward. Then another.
And then he ran.
Alastor didn’t follow. He just watched, smile fixed, humming faintly under his breath as the sound of footsteps faded down the street.
When the alley was quiet again, the Radio Demon’s grin widened, eyes glowing red as static bled softly into the air.
“Hungry little thing,” he murmured.
And somewhere blocks away, Vox clutched his scarf tight to his throat and told himself he’d never see that demon again.
He was wrong.
Vox stumbled out of the alley, clutching the ragged edge of his stolen meal, grease-stained paper half shredded in his shaking hands. The taste of salt and ash still clung to his tongue. His stomach should have been satisfied—anything should have been better than the gnawing emptiness that had hollowed him out—but the food barely made a dent. Hunger wasn’t just in his gut anymore; it was crawling up his throat, simmering behind his eyes.
He moved fast. Not gracefully, not even efficiently—his legs ached from reforming too many times in too few days—but his body remembered the rhythm of running from worse things. The city blared around him: neon laughter, radios humming, demons calling for deals. He didn’t look back.
He kept thinking of the red-suited figure’s eyes. Of the glint that might’ve been curiosity—or warning. Vox had no way of knowing which. Either way, he wanted distance.
The streets bled together, slick with oil and old rain. He cut through another alley, mind darting between shadows, trying to guess which ones were safe. Somewhere behind him, the city’s noise thinned. Too quiet. That was never good.
A sound caught in his throat—a whir, static-spiked and nervous—as he forced himself to slow. He leaned against the brick wall, trying to breathe without sounding like prey. The flicker of his screen cast pale light over his hands. He hated how thin they looked.
Then: footsteps. More than one pair. Heavy, deliberate.
Vox froze.
The first voice came low, nasal, too calm. “S’that him?”
Another answered, “Looks like it. The other guys—you heard Shawn scream—and who else could’ve done it? Little guy’s got nerve, huh? Didn’t expect a silver-faced sweetheart with a TV for a head. Don’t see that every day.”
Vox turned just enough to see silhouettes fanning into the mouth of the alley. Six of them. They filled the narrow space like a wall of muscle and menace, city light glinting off jagged teeth and broken horns.
His grip tightened around the paper bag. “You—got the wrong guy.” His voice fuzzed mid-sentence, static clipping the edges. He straightened his scarf as if that might give him composure.
One of them laughed, the sound all gravel. “Nah. You’re the right guy. You offed our friends.”
“I didn’t off anyone,” Vox snapped before he could stop himself. He took a step back. The wall greeted him coldly.
“Funny,” said another, grinning. “’Cause they ain’t coming back, and you’re the one standing where they should be. So what’s that make you?”
Vox’s mind raced. Not a killer. Not stupid enough to fight six at once. Think. Talk.
He forced a smile—the kind he’d use on investors decades later, too sharp to be kind. “Look, I don’t even know your friends. I was just—hungry. I took some money. You can have it.” He reached into his coat and pulled the crumpled bills he hadn’t dropped earlier. “See? Still warm.”
The leader—a bull-horned Sinner with jagged edges where skin met ash—looked unimpressed. “You think you can buy it off that easy? They were my boys.”
“I can throw in an apology?”
Laughter broke through the group like a match strike. The sound scraped the air raw.
Vox’s smile faltered.
Another demon, tall and reptilian, licked his teeth. “Apologies don’t feed us. You took something. You pay back proper.”
Vox blinked. “Proper?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
His stomach sank. The air went cold and thick, pressing at his lungs. He didn’t need them to say what they meant; he wasn’t that naïve. But he could play dumb, if playing dumb kept him breathing.
He held up both hands. “Hey now, no need for—whatever this is. I’m not worth your time.”
“Oh, I think you’re exactly worth it,” said the reptilian one. He took a step forward, shadows bending with him.
Vox’s mind fractured between fight and freeze, neither winning. He could feel the static building under his screen, faint sparks flickering along the corner of his jaw. The display buzzed, the faint white glow glitching.
The bull-horned demon chuckled. “Lookit him—he’s sparking. Little toy’s scared.”
Vox smiled again. Too wide. “Scared? No, no. You think I’m scared?” He clicked his tongue, forced his voice lower, steadier. “I’m calculating.”
“Calculating what?”
“How fast I can talk you out of this.”
The laughter came again, closer this time.
He was boxed in. Six of them, thick and grinning, blocking both exits. Vox’s brain worked on panic logic: If they laugh, they’re listening. If they’re listening, they haven’t killed you yet.
So he kept talking. “Look. You kill me, I reform. You get nothing. Waste of energy. You rough me up, sure, but then what? You think you’ll feel better? You’ll just be hungrier. And I—” he drew a shaking breath, “I’ll still be hungry too.”
“Not our problem,” one muttered.
“It will be,” Vox said quickly. “You kill me, I come back meaner. You think your buddies are mad now? Imagine me with something to prove.”
That earned a pause. Thin, but enough for him to see a sliver of air through the wall of bodies.
He could almost laugh at himself. Scrawny, starving, shaking apart—and bluffing like a conman.
One of them grunted. “Big talk for a little guy.”
“I’m just efficient,” Vox said, leaning back against the wall like it was deliberate. “Now, if we can—”
A hand caught his scarf and yanked him forward.
He gasped, static flaring bright. The leader pulled him close enough that Vox could see every crack in his teeth. “You’re not walking away, sweetheart. You can save the pitch. We already decided how this goes. You’ve got a good body. Might keep us from offing you—at least until the other guys respawn.”
Vox’s breath hitched. So these guys must all stick together just because His brain threw a dozen bad options at him: fight, plead, bite, scream. Each died before it reached his tongue.
So he laughed. Thin and trembling. “At least let me eat first. Dying hungry’s bad for the soul, you know?” He didn’t have any food left, but maybe he could play them, get him a second to think, or maybe run? No, he’d never outrun them; he’d have to outsmart…
It bought him a moment. The grip loosened slightly. One of the others snorted. “He’s got jokes.”
“Yeah,” Vox said. “Real funny guy.”
The group’s laughter fractured into murmurs, cruel and casual. The air stank of brimstone and rot. He caught words like make it right and he owes us and don’t break him yet—each one a spike of panic dressed in innuendo.
Vox’s smile stayed frozen. His body moved on autopilot. Keep them amused. Keep breathing.
He nodded toward one of them, voice thin. “You look like you’ve seen better nights.”
The demon frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just saying, I know the look of desperation. You’re not half as scary as you think.”
The punch came fast. Vox barely saw it before his head slammed into the wall. His screen flickered white, a jolt of static slicing through his vision.
He blinked, trying to reorient. A taste like copper filled his mouth. “See?” he rasped. “Proved my point.”
The leader growled, readying another blow, but something stopped him—an odd noise cutting through the alley.
A low hum, rising like static through an old radio.
Vox felt the hair on his neck rise.
The others turned, scanning the shadows. “What the hell is that?”
The hum built into faint laughter—cheerful, lilting, wrong.
“Oh, wonderful,” a familiar voice drawled. “A crowd. I do adore an audience.”
Vox’s stomach plummeted.
The air seemed to ripple as Alastor stepped into view, the streetlight catching on his grin. Red suit, striped tie, the faint buzz of his microphone cane tapping the ground. He looked, impossibly, delighted.
“My, my,” Alastor said. “It appears I’ve stumbled upon a party. And what fun you all seem to be having!”
The group stiffened. One of them snarled, “Who the hell are you?”
“Hell, precisely!” Alastor replied, tipping his hat. “And who am I? Why, that depends—who are you to be accosting this poor, fragile creature?”
Vox would’ve protested fragile if he weren’t busy trying not to collapse.
The bull-horned one spat. “None of your business. He owes us.”
“Owes you?” Alastor’s voice brightened, curious. “For what, may I ask? A debt of honor? Or something more… unsavory?”
The hum deepened, filling the alley like a pressure wave.
One of the demons laughed nervously. “Back off, radio freak.”
Alastor’s grin didn’t move, but something in the air changed—sharp as a drawn wire. “Ah. I see.”
Vox pressed himself against the wall, instinct screaming don’t move.
“I do hate bullies,” Alastor murmured, and then everything happened at once.
The world erupted into noise—screaming frequencies, laughter turned mechanical. The alley flashed with red light. Vox’s vision glitched in and out, static overtaking half his display.
He heard claws scraping stone, the wet thud of bodies hitting walls, the surreal echo of Alastor humming a swing tune between blows. None of it was clear; his mind refused to translate the chaos into detail.
He ducked low, trying to move, but his knees buckled.
He could hear someone crying out—he wasn’t sure if it was one of them or him. The world flickered. Smelled like copper and ozone.
Vox curled tighter, pressing his forehead to the cold ground. His screen buzzed, cracked light bleeding at the edges.
The laughter stopped.
Silence fell heavy as dust.
He risked a glance up. The alley was painted in shadow and red. Shapes lay still.
And Alastor stood at the far end, cane tapping once against the cobblestone. His grin was unchanged.
Vox’s throat went dry. He wanted to speak, to thank him, to run—he couldn’t decide which urge was stronger.
His body chose none.
The static swelled again, washing everything white.
For a moment, Vox thought it was over.
The world had gone quiet, like the city itself was holding its breath. Alastor’s laughter had cut off mid-note, leaving the alley trembling in its wake. The bodies—five of them—lay slumped, the air thick with the metallic stench of spent magic and blood.
Vox stayed crouched, body shaking in tight, jerking tremors. His breath came short and sharp through the static crackle in his throat.
He should move.
He couldn’t move.
Somewhere behind him, there was a sound—soft, almost muffled. A shift of weight. He turned his head just enough to see motion at the edge of vision: one of the six, still alive.
The Sinner’s eyes caught what little light there was, and the expression in them made every circuit in Vox’s chest spark wrong.
“Got you,” the demon rasped.
Vox barely had time to lift his hands before the first blow came.
The impact burst through his vision like lightning, blue-white and blinding. His screen cracked—he heard it more than felt it at first, a high, thin sound like glass under pressure. His body hit the ground, shoulder-first.
He tried to say something—anything—but the sound came out scrambled.
Another hit. His display fractured again, pixels spidering outward in slow motion. Blue blood ran in quick, digital streaks down his jaw, pooling beneath him.
The world became a rhythm of sound and pain: boot against ribs, fist against screen, his own breath glitching in static.
He didn’t fight. Couldn’t. His limbs wouldn’t coordinate; his body felt like half of it belonged to someone else.
The Sinner snarled something above him—Vox didn’t catch the words, just the tone: cruel, vindictive, victorious.
He tried to crawl, and failed. His fingers scraped uselessly against the cobblestone, claws leaving faint sparks.
“Pathetic,” the Sinner spat, rearing back for another kick.
The blow never landed.
There was a sound like a radio being tuned too fast—sharp, discordant. Then came the static.
Vox blinked through the glitch in his vision just in time to see Alastor’s silhouette cross the alley in a flicker of red.
The Sinner had time to scream once before his voice cut off in a static pop. When the screaming stopped, his grin didn’t. It simply quieted.
Silence fell again, broken only by the low hum of Alastor’s magic fading.
Vox lay half-curled on the ground, one arm wrapped tight around his midsection. His breathing came in distorted bursts, the glow of his screen flickering in uneven pulses. Every inhale sent a shudder through the cracked glass.
He didn’t look at the blood-soaked suit of the Radio Demon. Couldn’t.
He knew what came next. He’d seen it before—the cleanup, the punishment, the efficiency of power reminding him of his place.
His body reacted before thought caught up. He tried to crawl again, dragging himself forward inch by inch. Each movement sent shards of light stabbing across his field of vision.
The broken edges of his screen scraped the ground. He hissed, pain glitching his voice.
He made it maybe three feet before the shadows shifted beside him.
“Ah, ah, ah…” Alastor’s voice was close, too close. The cheer was still there, but softer now. “Do be careful, little one. You’ll make the damage worse.”
Vox froze. His whole body locked up at the sound, instinct screaming don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t give him reason.
He heard footsteps—measured, deliberate—coming closer. The faint tap of the cane echoed like a metronome.
Then the sound stopped.
For a heartbeat, Vox thought maybe Alastor had gone. Maybe he’d left him there, half-broken, to reform later in some gutter. That would be mercy, honestly.
But then there was a low hum, a shift in the air pressure, and he knew he wasn’t alone.
“Goodness,” Alastor murmured, voice pitched low. “You are in quite the state.”
Vox’s throat glitched when he tried to speak. What came out was a faint digital crackle.
“Shh.” The sound was gentle, incongruously so. “Don’t strain yourself.”
Something touched his shoulder. Lightly. Careful.
Vox flinched so hard it rattled the broken glass on his face. His screen flared white, static overtaking half the display.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Alastor said softly. “Though I can’t imagine you’ll believe me.”
Vox didn’t. His breath came ragged, shallow. Every nerve screamed to move, to get away. His limbs wouldn’t obey. The world had narrowed to a tunnel of light and static and pain.
He felt the touch again, more insistent this time—a gloved hand rolling him gently onto his back.
The motion sent a fresh spike of agony through him. Vox gasped, a broken sound caught halfway between a sob and a static burst.
Alastor hissed quietly between his teeth. “Ah. That’s not good at all.”
Vox’s vision flickered, the world fragmenting into jagged pixels. He could see Alastor’s face above him—sharp, red, the grin dimmed into something almost neutral. The radio’s hum had quieted to a low, steady static.
“You’re bleeding,” Alastor observed, as if narrating a broadcast. “And cracked, too. My, my… they were thorough.”
Vox tried to say I’m fine, but the words died as another tremor wracked him. He coughed—digital distortion fizzing through his speaker.
“Easy,” Alastor said. The word felt wrong in his mouth—like he was testing the shape of kindness.
He set the cane aside and crouched lower. His eyes were sharp, focused, not cruel—just seeing.
Vox could barely process that. No one looked at him like that. They looked through him.
He turned his head, trying to avoid the gaze, and pain flared bright. His cracked screen whined softly as pixels shorted out along the edge.
“Shh,” Alastor said again, quieter this time.
He reached out, fingers ghosting near Vox’s face. The air crackled faintly where glove met static.
Vox’s instincts screamed. He flinched again, hard enough to jolt his injuries. The pain bit through him like current.
Alastor paused. “Steady now. I won’t harm you. I merely wish to see how bad it is.”
Vox wanted to believe that. He also wanted to vanish. Both wants tangled uselessly inside him.
He stayed still—not out of trust, but because moving hurt too much.
Alastor’s hand moved closer, hovering just beside the fractured glass of Vox’s display. His fingers traced the air rather than touch, mapping the damage. His expression shifted—curiosity giving way to something like alarm.
“This will not do,” he muttered.
Vox blinked, disoriented. The world kept stuttering.
Then, gently, Alastor brushed a thumb along the edge of the largest crack.
Pain lanced through Vox’s skull. The sensation wasn’t physical alone—it was like every signal in his body screamed at once, static boiling through his vision.
He cried out, short and broken, and the sound collapsed into a burst of white noise. His body seized, then went limp.
The world narrowed to a pinprick of light.
He thought—just before it all went out—that Alastor said something else. Something he couldn’t quite catch through the ringing in his ears.
Then everything flickered to black.