Chapter Text
"Five... four... three..."
The chubby demon producer raised his fingers, counting down in the darkness behind the spotlight. Suddenly, the bright red 'ON AIR' sign flashed to life.
The slender figure on the swivel chair spun around, plastering a charming, million-dollar smile onto his rectangular glass screen.
"Good morning, citizens of Hell!" Vox’s voice was deep, resonant, and trustworthy, booming through a cheap microphone in a studio the size of a shoebox.
"I’m Vincent, and this is 'Morning Massacre.' We’re starting the day with bright, sunny skies! Upper Pride Ring will see a slight rise in temperature, but expect it to remain cool with patches of fog overnight. Everywhere else? Just the usual acid rain drizzle in the afternoon.
"I highly recommend carrying an umbrella, unless you want your flesh seared right off the bone without realizing it! Ha! And today, the temperature holds steady at 666 degrees—perfect weather for a little grand larceny! Do take care of your health amidst this fluctuating weather."
He adjusted his tie slightly, his sharp eyes scanning the script scrawled in chicken scratch on blood-stained paper. Professionalism shone brightly, a stark contrast to the dilapidated equipment around him. The main camera was held together by duct tape, while the second spotlight flickered annoyingly.
He endured the glare, narrating the news through the speakers at his temples.
"And for our final headline this morning: The 'Gold-Tooth Squirrel Gang' raided the Donut Factory at the docks earlier today. Twelve dead, five critically injured, and oh... what a tragedy.
"The entire lot of chocolate-frosted donuts was completely destroyed! For those craving that specific treat, you might have to wait until next week. Truly heartbreaking, folks."
He feigned a look of sorrow on his screen before flashing a wide grin again.
"And don't forget our generous sponsor today, 'The Demon Butcher Shop.' Fresh, clean, slaughtered daily! Go support them in the West District, open every day, no holidays!"
"Cut!" the producer shouted.
"Great work, Vince! Wrapped it up nicely."
The moment the ON AIR light died, his rigid shoulders slumped. The smile flattened into a line of boredom. He sighed deeply, pulling the mic from his lapel and tossing it onto the cheap plywood desk.
"Spotlight number two is flickering again," Vox muttered, straightening his suit as he walked off the set—a poorly painted backdrop of a crooked Hell city on canvas.
"I told you, Jerry, change the panel. The light is inconsistent; it makes my screen look dull!" His left eye twitched.
"Come on, Vincent..." The producer shrugged, lighting a cigarette, completely indifferent.
"We have a budget, man. Getting a few thousand viewers is already a luxury. What do you expect from a local cable channel?"
Vox paused. The word 'local' made his eye twitch again.
Frustration bottled up in his chest. He used to be a famous host! Everyone admired him! Why? Why does he have to be here, inhaling second-hand smoke in this rat hole? He clenched his sharp fingers and took a deep breath.
"Whatever..." Vox closed his eyes, brushing away the intrusive thoughts along with the dust on his suit. Dwelling on the past was useless now. He walked to the exit, grabbing his briefcase and his pay envelope.
"See you tomorrow, Jerry... Hope the lights don't flicker tomorrow." He called back to Jerry, who just grunted in response.
Vox pushed open the glass door, stepping out carefully to avoid the small carcasses that scavengers loved to feast on around here.
"Thirty... forty... fifty-five bucks."
Slender fingers counted the bills and coins in the envelope. Just enough for rent, spare parts, and cheap entertainment to sustain life.
He stepped out of the station district onto the main road of Pentagram City. The late morning atmosphere of Hell was chaotic and filthy. The crimson sky was choked with black smoke from factories. Sirens and gunshots rang out periodically, the white noise of daily life.
He held his head high, stepping over piles of trash and puddles of blood with practiced ease.
"Hey! That's the TV-face guy from the show this morning!"
"Yeah... looks way lamer in person." Drunk sinners, recognizing him from the local broadcast, laughed raucously.
He ground his teeth, resisting the urge to electrocute the trash-talkers right there. wove through the crowd, cutting through alleys that reeked of iron and burning plastic, until he stopped in front of a small shop in the old commercial district. A neon sign flickered above the door.
‘Vox Electronics – Repair, Sell, Pawn.’
He stared at the name he had chosen for a moment before slipping in through the back door. Ran up to the second floor, returning to his rat-hole apartment in the slums.
A place that served as both his sleeping quarters and his workshop. He threw his bag onto a worn-out sofa that was leaking stuffing. The slender body collapsed onto the leather cushion, burying his face in his favorite pillow.
He rolled over, scanning the cramped room... The afterlife was nothing like he had imagined.
It had been nearly four years since he was cast down here. As a human, he imagined Hell full of eternal, personalized torture, with wardens whipping sinners into repentance. The reality was a dark comedy.
No wardens. No rules. No torture. Just absolute, debauched freedom.
It was pure capitalism, very close to what he was used to, just with zero morality and a bit more gore. Everything here ran on profit, price gouging, and filth.
Vox stood up and walked to the sink, staring at his reflection. He looked at the bulky, retro TV head. The thick, convex glass screen had faint scratches. Wires dangled messily.
"Heh..." He scoffed at himself. The handsome face he was once so proud of had ended up as a freakish television set on a tall, lanky body—like some cartoon character slapped together from electronic scraps found in a sewer.
Even though he had climbed to become a local news anchor and his electronics side hustle was going well, it wasn't enough.
The cost of equipment, modern technology, and living expenses were too high for someone trying to build an empire from scratch. He needed more... something to make him grander, something to take him further.
The bell from the central clock tower chimed at 1:00 PM, waking the old commercial district. The scorching afternoon sun of Hell beat down on his storefront.
Vox stretched, preparing to open the shop for the afternoon shift. He rolled his shoulders to shake off the fatigue from the morning broadcast. Long fingers fished a large key ring from his pocket, jamming a key into the thick padlock on the steel shutter.
Clack... Clack...
It took a bit of finesse before the stubborn lock yielded. He grabbed the steel accordion gate and slammed it open.
Craaaash!
The sound of metal grinding against the track echoed through the alley. He stepped into the single-unit shop, cramped and packed with what others saw as "junk." Stacks of convex CRT TVs reached nearly to the ceiling. Ancient radios with exposed wiring and all manner of discarded appliances were piled so high there was barely room to walk.
He switched roles, donning a heavy electrician's apron over his rolled-up shirt. He tied the strings tight around his waist. Time for the second job... the grunt work. The work that would get him enough money to buy a decent building.
He navigated the mountains of electronic parts skillfully, heading to the back corner. A unique scent hit his sensors immediately—the sharp tang of soldering lead mixed with the burnt smell of circuit boards. To others, it might be nauseating. To him, it was the smell that kept him going all day. The smell of treasure.
Thin arms began lifting broken appliances, sorting them into categories. He used his long legs to kick aside scraps of wire and plastic clearing a path.
Vox walked to the long workbench covered in tools. He started sorting today's revenue sources. Glowing blue eyes scanned the pile of e-waste customers had dumped. The processor in his head worked fast.
"Trash... trash... fixable... trash..."
He lifted a TV with both hands, flipping it to check the rear circuit board.
"Swollen capacitor... change these two parts and it works. Heh."
He hummed happily, placing it in the 'Good' pile gently. The rest were tossed into the discard pile without a second thought.
The open door let grey dust motes dance in the sunlight.
"Cough, cough..." Vox waved the dust away. The cooling fan in his chest whirred loudly as dust began to clog the filter.
"I hate this..." Vox grumbled, picking up a soldering iron. "Get rich quick, and move to a building with an air filtration system, Vincent."
[14:45 PM]
Ding!
The first bell of the afternoon rang. Vox, busy managing circuit boards, looked up. His oil-stained face broke into a smile.
"Welcome to Vox Electronics! The shop of modern innovation where—"
"How much for this radio?"
The first customer was a scrawny Mantis Demon wearing an oversized coat. He didn't even wait for Vox to finish his greeting. Spindly fingers pointed at an old wooden radio, freshly repaired and displayed in the glass cabinet.
Vox narrowed his eyes slightly, calculating the price in his head.
Large model... replaced three vacuum tubes... polished teak wood... cost another five bucks... labor roughly ten.
"You have sharp eyes, sir!" Vox put down his tools, walking around the counter with energy.
"This is a classic model. Picks up signals all the way to the outer rings. Crystal clear sound. But for you? Special price. Thirty-five bucks only."
"Thirty-five!?" The Mantis shrieked.
"Are you joking me!? It's ancient! The shop on the corner sells them for ten!"
Vox smirked.
"The shop on the corner sells dead junk, brother," Vox replied smoothly, reaching out to turn the knob.
Humm...
Rock and roll music blasted out. Clear. Powerful. Zero static. The dial glowed with a warm amber light.
"Others sell scrap you have to fix yourself... but here? I only sell what's ready to use." Vox leaned in closer, placing a hand on the customer's shoulder closely.
"And I replaced the receiver inside with military-grade copper coils... You know what that means? It means you can secretly tune into the 'Overlords' communication channels.'"
The greedy Mantis's antennae twitched immediately. "Wait, I can eavesdrop on the big shots?"
"Crystal clear," Vox winked.
"Think about it... If you know before anyone else which gang is fighting in which district, you can get there first to loot the bodies. Pure profit."
"Thirty-five bucks in exchange for a treasure map... I'd say that's a steal."
The customer hesitated for a moment before digging into his pocket and slamming coins onto the glass cabinet.
"Fine! Take it! But throw in some batteries too!"
"With pleasure!"
Vox took the money, dropping it into the register with a satisfying Ching!
[16:20 PM]
"Hey, kid! Help me look at this!"
This time, it was a plump Goat Demon lady dragging a massive 'Cabinet TV' into the shop with the strength of an elephant.
Vox jumped over a pile of wires to help before she knocked over his display case.
"Easy, ma'am! Put it down gently."
Thud!!
The heavy TV hit the repair table, sending dust flying. Vox coughed, wiping dust from his screen.
"It's broken again!" She complained, hands on her hips, face red with anger.
"My damn husband was watching baseball, his team lost, and he threw a beer bottle at the screen! Look! The picture is all jumpy!" Vox looked at the screen. Cracked corner, rolling vertical lines, twitching image.
"Oh... that's terrible. Men can be so sometimes," Vox feigned sympathy, picking up a screwdriver to open the back panel.
"But don't worry. It's in good hands now."
"Can you fix it? Needs to be done by 7 PM! I have a show to watch!" She pressured him.
"Absolutely," Vox replied, one hand working furiously on the circuit board. "But in this case, the impact damaged the internals. There might be a slight extra charge."
"Just fix it! Whatever it costs!"
Vox smirked, replacing the part for his chatty customer. Soon, he turned the knob. Zip! The image stabilized instantly, sharp as new.
"Done! Good as new!"
"Oh my! You're a genius, young man!" She clapped delightedly, paying him generously. "I should have come to you ages ago. That old geezer's shop never fixes anything right."
"Vox Electronics, service with heart," Vox flashed a charming smile.
Before dropping it the second she left.
[18:50 PM]
"Hey! Dude!" A regular customer walked in, slamming an ancient radio onto the counter. Thud!
"What now? What's wrong with it this time?" Vox asked lazily, reaching for another set of tools.
"It's broken again! I can't pick up the 'Radio Demon's Broadcast' at all! How did you fix this crap?"
Vox paused. That name again. Everywhere he went—the market, the slums, even in the news scripts he read. He paused, thinking back to the brief interaction he’d had, trying to get into that man's orbit over few years.
Everyone talked about Alastor. The most famous man in Hell. The man who didn't try to attract attention, yet drove everyone mad with interest.
He looked at the radio with complexity.
"It didn't break because of me..." Vox said flatly, his metallic fingers tapping on the device.
"It broke because your receiver is too trash to handle a signal of that level."
Vox spun the radio around. His eyes were serious, but his voice softened.
He dismantled the frame to reveal the insides—burnt circuits and melted copper insulation.
The sound waves Alastor transmitted... they were too violent, too powerful for this cheap radio to handle.
"So what do I do? I wanna listen to him! He has a special broadcast tonight," the customer whined.
"I'll change the circuit board..." Vox picked up the soldering iron, the tip heating up to a glowing red.
"But this time, I'll install a signal amplifier. You'll hear him so clearly it’ll feel like you’re sitting right next to him. Interested?"
"Yeah! Do it! Name your price!"
[21:15 PM]
The final bell rang softly as the sky turned pitch black. Vox, about to turn off the shop lights, stopped. He turned to the last visitor—a teenage demon girl with thick glasses, twisting her body shyly at the door.
"Um... sorry. Are you closed?" Vox sighed lightly, ready to kick her out.
"Closed, sor—"
"I-I... I remember you!" She blurted out.
"You're Vox! The one who read the news this morning! 'Morning Massacre,' right?" Vox froze. His expression shifted from annoyance to surprise.
"Oh... yes. That's me." He adjusted his collar automatically.
"I love your show! Your storytelling so well, and... your voice is amazing! You're like my idol!" She handed him a small notebook.
"Can I... Can I have your autograph?"
Vox looked at the notebook... This was the first time in Hell anyone had asked for his autograph. He chuckled in his throat, a strange warmth spreading in his chest. He took a marker, signing his name carefully.
"Thanks for watching," Vox smiled. This time, it was the most genuine smile of the day.
"Don't forget to tune in tomorrow morning. Special scoop on bank robbers."
"Yes! I'll definitely watch!" She took the notebook back and ran off happily.
Vox watched her figure fade into the darkness. He looked at the pen in his hand. The exhaustion seemed to fade just a little.
"Idol, huh..." he murmured. "That's right. Idol."
[22:45 PM]
Click...
Finally, closing time. The sound of the lock clicking into place signaled the end of the day. Silence enveloped the shop.
The chatter of customers, the haggling, the complaining—all gone.
All that remained was the hum of the ventilation fan and the sound of electricity running through hundreds of devices. The slim figure leaned against the plaster wall, his tall frame feeling heavy. His vision blurred; internal battery running low.
He was tired... too tired to drag his legs up the stairs to the second floor, to bury his head in a room with just a mattress, a single pillow, and a million spare parts.
His legs trembled from standing all day. His metal joints were hot, almost melting. Vox slowly sank to the concrete floor amidst piles of steel and wood.
His blue eyes drifted to the remaining lights in the shop. The red, green, and blue LEDs from various devices charging or on standby twinkled like fireflies.
It was beautiful... in a way others wouldn't understand.
"You guys don't talk much, do you..." Vox spoke to the pile of old TVs surrounding him.
He reached out to stroke the screen of a TV that was still warm from being left on. That warmth radiated against his cold palm.
Vox curled up on the floor, his long arms hugging that TV like a body pillow.
The smell of lead, rubber, and static that others despised... he loved it all.
He reached out blindly for a radio, his weak hand slowly turning the dial, searching for a familiar sound. Only the blue light from his own screen illuminated the darkness.
Buzz...
And the sound of radio statics.
"—Oh, and that is the funniest story I've ever told! I've never told anyone how I got to this point..."
Vox's screen slowly dimmed. his heart rate slowing to a normal rhythm upon hearing that voice.
"When will I be as great as you..." He thought aloud, while the Radio Demon's voice continued to hum.
"I'll change my name. I'll change this shop. I'll change the world." He mumbled until his energy faded.
"Goodnight... lost sinners." Alastor's voice drifted from the radio. Vox smirked, even though his screen was dark.
"Goodnight... Alastor."
Amidst this pile of garbage that would, one day, turn into gold in his hands.