Game Over
Vox x Rival! Video Game Overlord Reader
Summary: face to face with the Media Overlord
Notes: still takes place before season 1
CW: none still
Word Count: 3.4K
Part 1
Chapter Two: Dance of Wits
There was a popular belief among the elite that arriving late somehow made one appear more important, as if forcing hundreds of people to wait around for your entrance magically elevated your status.
Near one of the upper balconies overlooking the main hall, Vox stood with a glass in one hand and a growing sense of impatience in the other.
Vox preferred arriving early. The early bird catches the worm.
More importantly, the early bird got to observe the room before everyone else started playing whatever social games they had planned for the evening.
And tonight, he was very interested in catching a particular worm.
Which was exactly why Vox had arrived nearly an hour before most of the major guests. Not because he was excited, and not because he cared. And certainly not because he had spent the last week obsessively reviewing every scrap of information he could gather regarding a certain gaming Overlord.
Absolutely not.
Music drifted throughout the enormous room while crystal chandeliers cast warm golden light across polished floors, illuminating clusters of powerful demons engaged in conversations that appeared friendly on the surface but were, in reality, negotiations, alliances, and thinly veiled threats wrapped in expensive smiles.
Movement near the grand entrance drew Vox's attention once more.
Several conversations slowed. Heads turned, not dramatically, just enough.
Enough for someone accustomed to reading crowds to notice.
And then you entered. Vox found himself staring, which irritated him.
Not because you were beautiful.
Well.
You were.
But Hell was overflowing with beautiful people. He saw attractive women practically every day.
Pretty wasn't rare. Pretty certainly wasn't enough to make him forget what he was thinking mid-sentence.
No. It was something else…
There was something strangely effortless about the way you carried yourself through the ballroom, neither demanding attention nor shrinking from it, simply existing with the quiet confidence of someone entirely comfortable within their own skin.
You weren't the loudest person in the room. You didn't need to be. The attention came anyway. People naturally shifted toward you.
Drawn in. Comfortable.
Like they trusted you. Like they wanted to speak with you.
The smile you offered a passing Hellborn diplomat looked genuine rather than calculated, and somehow that felt more dangerous than any intimidation tactic Vox had witnessed all evening.
Yet beneath that approachable warmth existed something else, something sharper.
The unmistakable air of someone who had absolutely no need to prove themselves to anyone. You looked approachable. But not weak.
There was a quiet certainty in your posture that suggested anyone foolish enough to mistake kindness for vulnerability would regret it very quickly.
Many of the younger Overlords gravitated toward whoever appeared the most powerful in the room, eagerly trying to attach themselves to larger names in hopes of gaining influence through association.
You found that approach exhausting. More importantly, it rarely worked.
Instead, you sought out those whose influence extended beyond appearances. Those who understood how Hell truly functioned. Which inevitably brought you toward two of the most respected figures present.
Carmilla Carmine and Zestial.
The pair stood near one of the quieter sections of the ballroom, seemingly content to observe the festivities from a distance while countless demons wisely gave them space.
You couldn't blame them.
Underestimating either of them would be a fatal mistake. Fortunately, you weren't stupid.
The conversation began simply enough. A polite introduction.
A few observations regarding recent developments throughout Pentagram City. Some discussion concerning trade routes and distribution networks reaching beyond Pride Ring.
Nothing particularly groundbreaking.
The discussion gradually shifted toward business, technology, logistics, and the changing entertainment landscape throughout Hell, with Carmilla asking several surprisingly insightful questions regarding your distribution systems while Zestial listened quietly nearby, occasionally offering observations that revealed a depth of understanding most people would never expect.
You answered honestly.
Well, mostly honestly. There was no point lying to people capable of seeing through it.
More importantly, you listened. A skill many ambitious new Overlords unfortunately lacked.
Several times throughout the conversation, you caught subtle glances passing between Carmilla and Zestial before one would respond.
They confirmed something your sources had already suggested.
They were a united front.
Even though Zestial had stepped back from active political maneuvering, his opinion clearly still carried enormous weight with Carmilla.
By the time the conversation finally wound down, no formal agreements had been signed. To many Overlords, that might have appeared disappointing.
To you? It was a success.
Because not every victory came with a signature. Sometimes a victory came disguised as respect, as recognition. As an open door where previously there had been none.
Which became abundantly clear when Carmilla calmly informed you that an invitation would be extended for the next Overlord Meeting.
Your expression remained composed. Internally, however, satisfaction bloomed.
That invitation mattered. Overlord Meetings were not social gatherings. They were where the true movers of Hell exchanged information, discussed threats, negotiated territory disputes, and quietly shaped the future of the Pride Ring.
"We shall look forward to seeing thee there," Zestial said pleasantly.
"Likewise," you replied with a genuine smile.
As the conversation concluded and you stepped away, you allowed yourself a small moment of satisfaction.
After concluding negotiations regarding several new shipping routes into the Greed Ring with Hellborn, you allowed yourself a quiet moment to survey the ballroom once more, mentally reviewing the evening's successes while deciding where to invest the remainder of your time.
There was still one Overlord you hadn't spoken to.
Rosie.
If you were being honest, she was the one you understood the least. Every source seemed to tell a different story. Some described her as one of the kindest Overlords in Hell. Others sounded downright terrified whenever her name came up.
Somehow, both groups appeared equally correct. Which wasn't exactly helpful.
Still, you hadn't built a successful empire by avoiding uncertainty. Sometimes you simply had to walk into a situation and see what happened.
You spotted her sitting at the bar. As you drew closer, you quickly realized she was engaged in a conversation—or rather, a polite dismantling—of the bartender's confidence.
"My good man," Rosie was saying with a pleasant smile, "I do not wish to seem critical, but one does expect a certain standard from an event of this magnitude.”
The bartender swallowed nervously. "M-Ma'am, our selection is considered one of the finest—"
"Indeed?" Rosie tilted her head. "How unfortunate.”
You slid onto the empty stool beside her. "Allow me."
Both Rosie and the bartender turned toward you.
You glanced toward the increasingly distressed employee. "Could you make a Man-Eater Gin?"
The bartender blinked.
"Heavy on the juniper," you continued calmly. "Blood-orange reduction. Real garnish."
The bartender's eyes widened. "...We actually have the ingredients for that."
You placed a generous tip onto the counter. "Excellent.”
The bartender vanished so quickly he nearly tripped. Beside you, Rosie tilted her head curiously. "Well now, aren't you a delightful surprise?"
"I hear first impressions matter."
"Oh, they absolutely do." Rosie clasped her hands together happily. "Most newcomers approach me looking terrified. It's terribly boring after a while."
You laughed. "Should I be terrified?"
"Only if you're rude.” She said it with such genuine pleasantness that it somehow sounded more threatening.
The bartender returned moments later with the drink. Rosie accepted the glass eagerly. She took a sip. Her eyes lit up immediately. "Oh! Absolutely marvelous.”
"Well," she said pleasantly, adjusting her gloves, "thank you kindly for coming to the aid of a lady in distress."
You placed a hand over your heart. "Of course. It is only proper.
Meanwhile, across the ballroom, Vox was rapidly losing patience.
His drones were excellent. State-of-the-art. The best surveillance technology in the Pride Ring. Which was why it was especially irritating that they were currently failing him.
The cameras zoomed in on your conversation with Rosie, while another drone perched near the bar attempted to isolate the audio from the surrounding crowd.
Unfortunately, gala guests were loud. The result was a frustrating mess of broken sentences and missing words.
Vox folded his arms tightly across his chest as static flickered faintly across his screen. "Come on..."
The audio crackled. Your voice surfaced briefly. "That's a lot you're doing for me. I imagine the price will be much higher than that—"
The recording distorted. Then Rosie's voice drifted through. "...nothing much..."
Another burst of interference. "...little favor..."
More static.
"...the Radio Demon."
Vox froze. His screen glitched.
Across the room, you and Rosie appeared completely relaxed, casually sipping your drinks while continuing the conversation.
For a moment, he thought he'd misheard. Seven entire years since Alastor had vanished from Hell without explanation. Seven years of rumors ranging from imprisonment to extermination to voluntary retirement.
Nobody knew the truth.
The orchestra's melody swelled through the ballroom, rich strings and elegant brass replacing the steady murmur of business conversations. Almost immediately, the atmosphere shifted. You watched the transformation from the edge of the room, amused by how quickly politics gave way to spectacle.
Beside you, Rosie brightened considerably at the first notes of the dance. "Oh, thank goodness," she declared, adjusting her hat. "For a dreadful moment, I thought everyone intended to spend the entire evening discussing business."
You laughed softly. "A terrifying possibility."
"Quite. Do enjoy the rest of your evening, dear."
"I will. You as well."
Rosie smiled warmly before disappearing into the growing crowd. Left alone, you found yourself studying the dancers as they glided across the polished floor.
You enjoyed dancing. The problem was that you had never particularly enjoyed dancing with strangers.
Perhaps it was old-fashioned of you, but the act had always felt oddly personal. Not romantic necessarily, but intimate in a way. You were placing your trust in another person for the duration of a song, allowing them close enough to guide your movements and share a moment that existed nowhere else. It was difficult to enjoy that sort of thing with someone whose name you barely knew.
As a result, you rarely danced.
Looking around the ballroom, you decided your work here was finished anyway. All things considered, the evening had been a tremendous success.
Turning away from the dance floor, you started toward the exit.
"Care for a dance?"
The voice stopped you mid-step. Your heart nearly skipped a beat. Slowly, you turned around.
And froze.
Standing before you was Vox.
You had known this encounter would happen eventually, but standing face-to-face with the Television Demon was still startling in a way you hadn't anticipated.
Up close, he was somehow more imposing than every billboard and advertisement had suggested. Neon light reflected faintly across the screen of his face, while confidence practically radiated from every inch of his posture. He looked entirely at ease, as though approaching rival Overlords for dances was something he did every day.
What unsettled you most, however, was the way he was looking at you. As though he had spent a very long time trying to solve a puzzle and had finally found the missing piece.
Curiosity won.
Perhaps accepting it was foolish. Perhaps it was exactly what Vox wanted. But, if the Media Overlord wished to play a game, there was no reason you could not play as well.
A small smile touched your lips as you placed your hand in his. "I'd be delighted."
Something flashed across Vox's screen at your acceptance. Satisfaction, perhaps. Whatever it was, it vanished quickly behind his usual confident grin as he led you toward the dance floor.
The song was familiar.
You recognized it immediately from the opening notes. It began slowly, elegantly, allowing partners to find their rhythm before gradually building into something faster and far more demanding.
His clawed hand settled comfortably against the small of your back while your own rested upon his shoulder.
For a few moments, neither of you spoke.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was measured. The kind of silence that existed when two people were studying one another.
You found yourself observing details you had never noticed from billboards and advertisements. Vox, meanwhile, seemed equally content to examine you.
His gaze never wandered. It remained fixed upon you with an intensity that suggested he was trying to solve a problem.
Eventually, he spoke first. "I've heard a lot about you."
You almost laughed. To anyone listening, it sounded like a compliment. A friendly conversation starter. You weren't naïve enough to believe that.
The statement was a probe. An invitation for information.
You met his gaze and allowed only the faintest smile to appear. "I've heard a lot about you as well."
Amusement spread across his screen.
The dance continued as the music gradually picked up speed, the orchestra guiding couples through increasingly complex steps. You followed easily, having known this particular song for years. Vox, to your surprise, was an excellent dancer. Every movement felt practiced and precise, as though he had performed this dance dozens of times before.
Then again, considering who he was, perhaps that should not have surprised you. Vox thrived on performance. Whether in a boardroom, behind a camera, or on a dance floor, he always seemed to know exactly where he should stand and what impression he wished to leave.
"You know," he began conversationally, guiding you through a turn before smoothly drawing you back into position, "I've been watching you all evening."
You raised an eyebrow. "Not very subtle, are you?"
"Mm-hm." His screen displayed an easy smile. "You're making quite the impression. But one thing stood out to me." His gaze remained fixed on your face. "You talked to every major Overlord here except the Vees."
There it was. The question had finally arrived. You had been expecting it from the moment he'd approached you.
"No business deals with us?" he asked casually.
The wording was careful, almost deceptively so. To anyone else, it might have sounded like harmless curiosity. You, however, could see exactly what he was doing. He was studying you, watching for hesitation, defensiveness, or some hurried explanation. He wanted to know whether avoiding the Vees had been intentional. More importantly, he wanted to know why.
You considered the question for a moment, allowing the music to carry you through another step before answering. "Not really, no."
The corner of Vox's screen twitched ever so slightly. One eye flickered. The hand resting against your back tightened for a fraction of a second before relaxing again.
Not because of your answer, but because of what was missing from it. He had expected more. An excuse, perhaps. A justification. Something he could dissect and analyze. Instead, you had handed him a wall.
You could almost see him recalculating.
The probing questions had not produced the answers he wanted. The polite smiles had failed to reveal your intentions. Whatever strategy he had arrived with tonight clearly wasn't progressing according to plan.
So he changed tactics.
Vox's expression smoothed into something pleasantly patronizing.
"Of course," he said, his voice taking on the tone of someone explaining something obvious to a child. "You are a younger Overlord. Relatively speaking, anyway."
There was the faintest emphasis on the word. You immediately disliked where this was heading.
"You've built something impressive," he continued. "Nobody's denying that. But experience counts for a lot in Hell. There are certain things you only learn after a few decades. Which is why," he said, flashing what was undoubtedly supposed to be a charming smile, "I'm willing to be generous."
The word nearly made you laugh. Instead, you kept your expression pleasant and allowed him to continue.
"I'll offer you a deal. Your technology is good. But you're limiting yourself. Under the Vees, your products would reach every corner of Pride." His grin widened confidently. "So how about it? Sell to me."
You blinked. For a moment, you wondered if you'd misheard him.
Vox, meanwhile, mistook your silence for interest. "You'll still make money, obviously," he continued. "I'm not unreasonable. Twenty percent of the profits."
This time, you genuinely had to suppress a laugh.
You had spent ten years building your company from nothing. Ten years establishing partnerships, distribution networks, employees, and a loyal customer base. And this man had just offered you twenty percent of your own success.
Across from you, Vox appeared entirely convinced he was presenting an attractive offer. In fact, the more he spoke, the more certain he seemed that he had already won.
Slowly, you smiled back. The sight immediately brightened his screen. For one brief, glorious moment, Vox genuinely believed he had you.
Then you answered. "No."
Vox's screen froze. For half a second, the image glitched before buffering slightly as though his brain had temporarily lost connection. "No?!"
For a moment, you simply looked at him. Then you laughed. It escaped before you could stop it, a genuine laugh that drew the attention of several nearby dancers.
Vox's screen darkened slightly. "What exactly is so funny?"
You shook your head, still smiling. "Oh, nothing much. Just the fact that you somehow managed to walk up to me and offer to sell me my own profits." You let out another incredulous laugh. "I have to admit, that's a new one."
"You Vees are unbelievable." You shook your head. "You spend so much time acting like the center of Hell that you've forgotten some people can succeed without attaching themselves to your little clique."
"Little clique?"
"Oh, come on." Your grin turned positively wicked. "The Vees? Really? That sounds less like a feared alliance and more like a group of mean girls from secondary school."
"I think you've spent so long being one of the biggest names in Pentagram City that nobody tells you when your ideas are stupid anymore. Have you lost your touch, old man?"
His screen flickered. To Vox's credit, he did not immediately explode.
The orchestra surged toward the song's crescendo, forcing the dancers into tighter formations. Vox's hand shifted against your back as he guided you through a turn before drawing you smoothly back toward him. Closer than before.
Your next retort died on your tongue.
The ballroom blurred slightly as the dance carried you together. Suddenly, you became acutely aware of just how near he was. His claws rested firmly against your back, one of your hands remained trapped in his, and the distance between your faces had narrowed to mere inches.
Vox's eyes flickered downward for a fraction of a second. His gaze caught on your lips. Then immediately returned to your eyes. The movement was so brief you must have imagined it.
Yet your heart gave a sudden, uncomfortable thud against your ribs.
The fuck?
That reaction annoyed you far more than Vox ever could.
Before your thoughts could betray you further, you stepped back the moment the dance allowed it, reclaiming a more comfortable distance between you.
Vox noticed. Of course he noticed. A flicker of amusement crossed his screen.
The bastard.
"You know," he said casually, as though nothing had happened, "you seem to know a lot about me."
You were grateful for the return to familiar territory. That, at least, you knew how to navigate. "Hard not to," you replied dryly. "You plaster your face on every available surface."
The moment the dance officially ended, you wasted no time. You slipped from Vox's grasp with a speed that was perhaps a little too eager to be dignified.
Vox noticed immediately. Judging by the smug curve of his grin, he found it hilarious.
"You know," you said, straightening your sleeves, "you're a pain in my ass."
His screen flickered with amusement. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me all evening."
You stared at him.
"If it makes you feel any better," he continued, "I've thoroughly enjoyed our conversation."
"Of course you have. With that air-headed Barbie and porn-obessed moth, I don't think you have any intelligent life around you."
For someone who had spent the entire dance being insulted, he seemed to be having the time of his life.
Before he could continue, you took a deliberate step backward. "I think that's enough excitement for one evening."
"Aww." The mock disappointment in his voice was unbearable. "You wound me."
"I'll try harder next time."
Then Vox performed a small, exaggerated bow. "I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again, doll."
You narrowed your eyes. There was an irritating amount of confidence in that statement.
"Try not to lose any more profits before then," you replied sweetly.
Vox's grin twitched.
Ha! You’d annoyed him. Success.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
next>>>
next update will be on 15 june!
taglist: @xystia @bobbi-tankthrust @lucifers-guitar-solo @radioappleshipper2002 @hsjdhehsjssj @drpepperdemon @minoka28 @beautyqueenforbes @cantbecreative @pawfuldayz00
@ch3rrypea @bumblingblockbee @g0d0fcha0s @melody13579 @petaltheory @jazztato @eavenreach @the-mysterious-detective @addison-proud @missniya
@consecratedvampire91 @true-fairyy @digital1shark
