[The thing about being an Overlord—especially a relatively fresh one, like Vox—is that there will always be upstarts trying to make a name for themselves, aiming for the inevitable target on a new Overlord's back. It is genuinely unavoidable, and admittedly, Vox's insistence on spreading the news of his upward trajectory to as many people as possible is probably, like, annoying? To many of those upstarts? This mouthy television with his dumb little vest, running his mouth in multimedia format about his own power and influence?
Well: inevitable. And not the first time a group of wannabe big shots have come around, but this time is the first time the local trash mobs have gotten the better of him.
(Not that Vox will admit this part.)
It's anyone's guess as to the real reason he's caught unawares: he's out with Alastor, so on the one hand he's distracted, and on the other, what kind of moron would pick a fight with him and Alastor, together? Maybe it's that; maybe it's because the last sinner who came at him wound up a red smear in a gutter; maybe it's because it's raining, it could be anything! But what happens is this: at some point in the fight Vox takes a blow to the head that quite literally rattles all his parts around and sends him sprawling to crack a plastic corner open on the pavement. Worse: his attempts to zap-teleport himself somewhere else just leave him sparking on the ground, and maybe he should have tried harder to understand how his body works these days?—but regardless, the last thing he sees before his vision goes static and then blinks out completely is Alastor, big and terrible and beautiful, stepping over his body with a snarl that's as defensive as it is raw and animalistic.
Vox would like to think it's defensive, anyway. Wouldn't that be nice. Either way he wakes up in the bar and he doesn't know how long it's been since the fight. And it's hard to identify as the bar at first, dimmer than usual after hours and with something distinctly wrong with his vision. Colors bleed and divide and flicker even as he simply glances around, nauseatingly.
He doesn't try to sit up; his head hurts like fuck, for one, and he has a vague burning sensation where one of the local losers managed to get a cut on him from his chest up to his shoulder. Whether he's bleeding or leaking will have to wait though, because first, staticky:]
Al▓▓▓▓or? [Ouch. He coughs and tries again,] Hey, Al? Where a▓▓ you? Oh, f▓▓k me, come ▓n...
[Being an appliance is garbage actually. Save him, Alastor.]
[Alastor can't be entirely sure what came over him in that moment—one moment, they were fighting... the next, there'd been a wave of pure anger washing over him. The only evidence (aside from Vincent's state) that had remained, in the eerily calm aftermath, had been just a few blood splatters and some upcoming screams for his next broadcast.
Now there's the matter of Vincent's body. It should recover on its own, eventually, but the injuries had been far more severe than usual. Alastor doesn't let himself linger on that particular detail. Instead, he's letting out an exaggerated sigh, almost lazily pressing a towel to the other demon's shoulder. The static of the television demon's voice doesn't concern him, per se, but it does have his body feeling a tad bit tense. Annoyance—he's annoyed that such weaklings managed to cause so much trouble for him. Such inconvenience, really!]
It would seem you've started to draw much more confident attention, these days, Vincent~ It's really too bad for them that I was already in such a foul mood. I could have let them think they stood a chance, if only for a few seconds!
[The lingering anger sneaks into his voice, despite the interesting position the pair have wound up in.
Which is to say, while he was getting Vincent settled, he wound up with the older demon's head in his lap. Moving it would have been far more trouble than it had been worth, at the time. Alastor had intended to move it before he awakened? But simply never got around to it. So... here they are! He's not drawing attention to it, and he's possibly pressing the towel into that shoulder with enough force to be distracting.
One of his claws lightly brushes over the cracked corner of what serves as Vincent's head. In a faux-bored tone:]
You have quite the fascinating anatomy, if I do say so myself.
[Oh, there he is— not too far away at all, which is a relief in and of itself. Not that Vox thinks Alastor would lose a fight against that kind of rabble, hah, ridiculous! —But he gets twitchy when Alastor is supposed to be within his line of sight and isn't, and the mess of smeared colors and blurry spots that make up his vision is a pain in the ass. There's a mostly-Alastor-shaped smudge that's the wrong color, huh, but keeps moving in and out of his immediate sight, so...
So, good. He'd relax a little, but he's still too out of it to really get there. He hasn't even fully comprehended where he's laying, as it were.
Still: there's Alastor, and Vox says something else that comes out as more glitched static. Even odds it's about his name, for much as it buoys him to hear Alastor call him Vincent, he's been trying to do this Vox thing for his image... Well, it's long enough after closing that the bar has been empty for hours, so maybe he can indulge in hearing his old name a bit longer.
He says,] ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓— [And then, completely clearly,] Fuck— [and reaches up to gingerly feel around his own neck before he pinches what feels like a bent cable back into place and coughs, which just sounds like more static.]
—Ow, wow, okay. It's- it's just plastic.
[His anatomy, and he's very out of it, or hearing Alastor say anything about his anatomy would ordinarily make him overheat and gape stupidly. Instead he just blinks up at him, gaze sliding around like he's not exactly sure which spliced image of Alastor he's seeing is the real one... Whatever he's soaking that towel with is weirdly thicker than normal blood, and don't think too hard about that, because his head is full of vacuum tubes that don't need fluid at all, and being a TV is finally worthwhile only because Alastor says it's fascinating-!
Vox squints up at him. Well, he squints up and in Alastor's vague direction. It hasn't escaped his noticed that Alastor is touching him, rest assured that is noted and memorized for all time, but-]
Wait. You were in a foul mood? [Nooo... but they were having a good time...]
[Alastor tilts his head just enough that one ear gently flops to the side, and it would usually be pretty obvious how closely Vox is being watched right about now.
The overly calm dismissal of his anatomy just being plastic, and then the way he isn't reacting to where his "head" is resting. Alastor doesn't feel concerned over it, but it is plenty to encourage a desire to pay even more attention than usual. Because, really, there must be considerable damage, after all. Vincent's last response, especially, warrants that thought.
Hm. He could keep up his act, he could say something mean, or he could tell the truth. After a short moment of consideration, he settles on...]
Well, of course! [It would be more fun, really, to continue at least a slightly meaner path of conversation, but that look already ruined the fun there. How frustrating.] Certain ruffians showed up while we were in the middle of conversation, did they not?
[It isn't as though Vox will ever know he softened the original response, so it's fine. He can know that those guys showing up, at all, immediately soured Alastor's mood, he guesses.]
Now... why don't you tell me what it is you need? I don't imagine a classic first aid kit would do the trick.
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"how does tv body work" feat. feral deer
Well: inevitable. And not the first time a group of wannabe big shots have come around, but this time is the first time the local trash mobs have gotten the better of him.
(Not that Vox will admit this part.)
It's anyone's guess as to the real reason he's caught unawares: he's out with Alastor, so on the one hand he's distracted, and on the other, what kind of moron would pick a fight with him and Alastor, together? Maybe it's that; maybe it's because the last sinner who came at him wound up a red smear in a gutter; maybe it's because it's raining, it could be anything! But what happens is this: at some point in the fight Vox takes a blow to the head that quite literally rattles all his parts around and sends him sprawling to crack a plastic corner open on the pavement. Worse: his attempts to zap-teleport himself somewhere else just leave him sparking on the ground, and maybe he should have tried harder to understand how his body works these days?—but regardless, the last thing he sees before his vision goes static and then blinks out completely is Alastor, big and terrible and beautiful, stepping over his body with a snarl that's as defensive as it is raw and animalistic.
Vox would like to think it's defensive, anyway. Wouldn't that be nice. Either way he wakes up in the bar and he doesn't know how long it's been since the fight. And it's hard to identify as the bar at first, dimmer than usual after hours and with something distinctly wrong with his vision. Colors bleed and divide and flicker even as he simply glances around, nauseatingly.
He doesn't try to sit up; his head hurts like fuck, for one, and he has a vague burning sensation where one of the local losers managed to get a cut on him from his chest up to his shoulder. Whether he's bleeding or leaking will have to wait though, because first, staticky:]
Al▓▓▓▓or? [Ouch. He coughs and tries again,] Hey, Al? Where a▓▓ you? Oh, f▓▓k me, come ▓n...
[Being an appliance is garbage actually. Save him, Alastor.]
no subject
Now there's the matter of Vincent's body. It should recover on its own, eventually, but the injuries had been far more severe than usual. Alastor doesn't let himself linger on that particular detail. Instead, he's letting out an exaggerated sigh, almost lazily pressing a towel to the other demon's shoulder. The static of the television demon's voice doesn't concern him, per se, but it does have his body feeling a tad bit tense. Annoyance—he's annoyed that such weaklings managed to cause so much trouble for him. Such inconvenience, really!]
It would seem you've started to draw much more confident attention, these days, Vincent~ It's really too bad for them that I was already in such a foul mood. I could have let them think they stood a chance, if only for a few seconds!
[The lingering anger sneaks into his voice, despite the interesting position the pair have wound up in.
Which is to say, while he was getting Vincent settled, he wound up with the older demon's head in his lap. Moving it would have been far more trouble than it had been worth, at the time. Alastor had intended to move it before he awakened? But simply never got around to it. So... here they are! He's not drawing attention to it, and he's possibly pressing the towel into that shoulder with enough force to be distracting.
One of his claws lightly brushes over the cracked corner of what serves as Vincent's head. In a faux-bored tone:]
You have quite the fascinating anatomy, if I do say so myself.
no subject
So, good. He'd relax a little, but he's still too out of it to really get there. He hasn't even fully comprehended where he's laying, as it were.
Still: there's Alastor, and Vox says something else that comes out as more glitched static. Even odds it's about his name, for much as it buoys him to hear Alastor call him Vincent, he's been trying to do this Vox thing for his image... Well, it's long enough after closing that the bar has been empty for hours, so maybe he can indulge in hearing his old name a bit longer.
He says,] ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓— [And then, completely clearly,] Fuck— [and reaches up to gingerly feel around his own neck before he pinches what feels like a bent cable back into place and coughs, which just sounds like more static.]
—Ow, wow, okay. It's- it's just plastic.
[His anatomy, and he's very out of it, or hearing Alastor say anything about his anatomy would ordinarily make him overheat and gape stupidly. Instead he just blinks up at him, gaze sliding around like he's not exactly sure which spliced image of Alastor he's seeing is the real one... Whatever he's soaking that towel with is weirdly thicker than normal blood, and don't think too hard about that, because his head is full of vacuum tubes that don't need fluid at all, and being a TV is finally worthwhile only because Alastor says it's fascinating-!
Vox squints up at him. Well, he squints up and in Alastor's vague direction. It hasn't escaped his noticed that Alastor is touching him, rest assured that is noted and memorized for all time, but-]
Wait. You were in a foul mood? [Nooo... but they were having a good time...]
no subject
The overly calm dismissal of his anatomy just being plastic, and then the way he isn't reacting to where his "head" is resting. Alastor doesn't feel concerned over it, but it is plenty to encourage a desire to pay even more attention than usual. Because, really, there must be considerable damage, after all. Vincent's last response, especially, warrants that thought.
Hm. He could keep up his act, he could say something mean, or he could tell the truth. After a short moment of consideration, he settles on...]
Well, of course! [It would be more fun, really, to continue at least a slightly meaner path of conversation, but that look already ruined the fun there. How frustrating.] Certain ruffians showed up while we were in the middle of conversation, did they not?
[It isn't as though Vox will ever know he softened the original response, so it's fine. He can know that those guys showing up, at all, immediately soured Alastor's mood, he guesses.]
Now... why don't you tell me what it is you need? I don't imagine a classic first aid kit would do the trick.