I write primarily Hazbin Alastor fanfics in the form of long novels. Slow burn, angst, and world building are my cup of tea but they’re not for the faint of heart. Can you handle it?
✨ Masterlists ✨
NOVELS
Demi Demon || Alastor x Reader [complete]
The Archivist's Oath || Alastor x Reader [ongoing]
SHORTS
Alastor’s Attention || Alastor x Reader
On-Air || Alastor x Reader
Code Racer || Alastor x Reader
Traveling Circus AU || Funnybunny Oneshot
It’s Never Too Late || Vox x Reader
RADIO APPLE
Borrowing Time || Lucifer x Alastor
Forgot your antlers || Lucifer x Alastor
DEMI DEMON Community Page
I try to keep my blog free of clutter so you only see my chapter updates and thoughts/theories. If you would like to hear more of my brain chatter and see sneak peaks/teasers, then you can use the link HERE to join.
REFLECTION READERS
Reflection Readers are people who message with me privately to provide critique/feedback on a particular chapter. Interested? Check out the post HERE
MY ACCOUNTS
A03 Account
- All my work is published over there (easier to read my long stories)
Wattpad Account
- All my work is published over there (easier to read my long stories)
Personal Author Account
- Want to show your support? I have a debut novel in the works!
FUTURE STORY LIST
Idea Board
- a collection of AU ideas either from my mind or from your comments/asks
FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS (FAQ)
Q. Can I send you an ASK or share my thoughts on your chapters?
A. Absolutely. My lovely @papas-ghoulette does it all the time 🧡
Q. Can I reblog your work?
A. Yes, in fact, please do. It helps me reach more Hazbin and Alastor enthusiasts
Q. Can I write a short story based on your world/plot?
A. You can, but please @ me somewhere so people know the world idea originally came from me. @jgabriel1920 did something similar for my Demi Demon plot
Q. How much of your story is planned? Do you write based on reactions or stick to your plan?
A. Unlike Demi Demon, I do have a plot this time. My major plot points don’t change, but I may add or rewrite certain scenes based on how my readers feel
Q. How often do you post chapters?
A. New chapter every other Wednesday 9:00am EST
Q. How much do you love your readers?
A. Where would I be without them 🧡
Use me up and eyes on me by Paranoid DJ always give me really dark, realistic Hazbin vibes
I picture a real Hazbin Hell as super dark (you’re “beneath” the world), there’s no sunlight cycle it’s all just the same low lighting, everything’s run like gangs on a massive level, it’s sweltering hot, no fresh air, ash and acid rain falling from the sky, and overrun with people like how Black Friday stores used to be
Also just want to point out that Vox would be a terrifyingly powerful overlord as the years went on because people are so reliant on technology and smartphones. He can see everything. He can prevent a rebellion. He can hypnotize people. If you get caught once, you’re done for. You literally can’t escape him.
A realistic Hazbin fanfic keeps burning in the back of my mind but I don’t even know where to begin to try forming a plot for this thing. It’s like a feeling I can’t describe
The Archivist's Oath || Alastor x Reader, Chapter 43: for sale or not for sale
Plot Summary: Alastor finds an Archivist who can translate Old World texts. Equally bound to their duty, you and Alastor traverse the tricky landscape of love and commitment…but to whom and to what?
Synopsis: It’s lore time. Always make sure you’re in a decent mindset before reading any of my chapters from this point on.
Masterlist
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"They certainly didn't waste their time sending a ransom note," Carmilla said, drumming her long nails on the wooden table. The other Lords and Ladies, along with Lucifer, locked themselves in their meeting room just like the way they locked their districts down.
Vox glanced down at the piece of paper in the center of the table. An hour after dawn, the White Angels sent a metal glider with a white flag on top, and inside was the ransom note, demanding a meeting between the leader of the White Angels and Lucifer, leader of Pentagram City.
Vox looked between the paper and Lucifer. Their leader sank further in his chair, arms crossed, and had a thousand yard stare. Vox tapped his finger a few times then asked the room, "What could they possibly want from us besides our surrender? They have two of the most important people."
"It's a trap, if you ask me," Velvette commented from beside him. She had her feet up on the table despite the situation. "They already have the princess and the archivist. Now they need the king."
"If they wanted our surrender, they would've asked it already," Carmilla said. "Why bother with a negotiation if they can demand our surrender with his daughter? Never mind the Archivist." She glanced unsurely in Alastor's direction, as did everyone.
The Radio Demon had been uncharacteristically silent since the beginning. It felt like a summer pot, just waiting to boil over and burns anyone nearby. The only people who had witnessed his immediate reaction was Lucifer. Alastor threw himself over the surface and tried to catch up to the escaping party before they reached the encampment.
But he was too late.
The camp had been put on full alert, already braced for his attack, and it forced him to retreat back into the safety of the ravine. He slithered into the empty cell where he proceeded to yell and curse and claw up the stone walls until his fingers bled.
Even now, hands wrapped and treated, he sat stiffly in that chair, buzzing with nervous, wrathful energy. It was a stark contrast to Lucifer's silence.
"What if they ask for Lucifer in exchange for Charlie?" Rosie asked.
"I'll do it in a heartbeat," Lucifer muttered.
"Then they would've said that in their note." Carmilla picked up the paper and read it over. "The fact that they're not giving an exact demand besides meeting with them just means they have something in mind that they want to trade. Something really complex that's hard to write in our language."
"Just saying none of this would've happened if you kept a closer eye on the prisoner," Velvette shot at her.
Carmilla glared across the table. "It was entirely out of my hands. I had no part in educating the prisoner in our language."
"You're military. You're supposed to keep us safe from outside and inside threats."
"That jurisdiction falls into Alastor's hands, as well." Carmilla's voice softened at the end, not quite wanting to aggravate him anymore than he was already. Especially since she sat directly next to him.
"And he was too busy fucking the Archivist to care," Valentino added with a wide, smug grin. Alastor's eyes flashed and Rosie put a hand on his arm.
"So what do we do?" Vox practically shouted in an effort to bring the topic away from the Archivist. It hadn't escaped his notice that the note said the White Angels would be trading Charlie, not the Archivist. Whether they had a separate deal for the Archivist or were planning to keep her for themselves, he didn't know. And neither did Alastor.
"I have to meet them," Lucifer muttered again, this time slightly louder than before. "There's no other choice."
"Who are you going to bring?" Vox asked. The White Angels allotted Lucifer one companion to go with him.
Lucifer was quiet for a moment. "No one in this room."
Carmilla leaned toward him. "Sir, if I may—"
"No," he interrupted, his voice firm yet cracking like glass, "I need every one of you here to protect your districts. Whatever happens to me, you're all that's left to keep things intact."
"So...then who?"
Lucifer stared through Carmilla, like she wasn't actually there and he was seeing something behind her. But eventually, he answered, "Sheba."
"Who?" Velvette owled.
"Sheba," Rosie repeated. "She's a worker in my district and is best friends with our Archivist."
"Why her?" Velvette asked with a curl in her nose. "This isn't about the Archivist."
"Sheba knows a lot about what's going on," Rosie explained. "The four of them are close and she knows a lot of top secret information from our Archivist. Besides, she has a bone to pick with the prisoner after knocking her out."
"Maybe there's a way we can have reinforcements overhead..." Carmilla began.
Lucifer shook his head. "I don't want to risk Charlie if they think we're double crossing them. But you're right, if they wanted our surrender they would've demanded it. So that must mean they want something else from me."
"Maybe it is you they want. What will we do if they capture you instead?"
Lucifer held Carmilla's stare for three long breaths. "Then I want you to carry on as you have been. I don't want anyone to trade anything for my life."
"Lucifer..." Rosie said softly.
"You're fine rulers, all of you." His gaze sweeper over every face. "You all have your shortcomings and your problems with each other, but through it all you care about your people. And that's what I want you to do. You'll think of something to break the tie on decisions." He gave a weak smile.
"Let's keep everything on high alert," he said next. "Until we know what they're planning, we're treating this like an act of war."
His eyes fell on Alastor.
"This just may end up being a War for Humanity."
~*~
My elbow slipped on blood as I tried to pull myself away. The scout held my legs down while Adam sat his entire weight on my back, plucking feather after feather from my wings.
I didn't know wings could bleed so much. I didn't know I would ever experience pain worsen than what Valentino did.
I screamed and begged, but they didn't stop. He didn't even ask me to translate the page. He just kept pulling my feathers for the fun of it. Even when I promised to translate the page, he didn't stop. I cried for Jor, for Alastor, for Rosie and Sheba, but no one came.
Every pluck sent a pain so deep it rattled my bones. It was like a piece of wood being shoved down alongside my spine over and over again. It left a burning sensation and I barely had time to recover before he plucked more.
My screams turned to wails and my wails turned to sobs. I vomitted a few times from the pain.
I don't know if he stopped plucking after I fell unconscious from the pain and all the blood loss. I only remember waking up to a random woman wrapping my wings in gauze. It stung, but I almost couldn't feel it after all the pain I had just went through. My entire wing felt numb.
The woman left and I laid there shivering, surrounded by a pool of blood and white and brown feathers. Eventually a pair of guards walked in. They dragged me from the room and into a different, much darker one.
They let go of me, half gently putting me on the ground, then disappeared into the hall. The door closed and I plummeted into darkness. I laid there for a long while, waiting for the throbbing in my wings to fade. I cried some more.
I heard shuffling.
My head shot up and send a bolt of pain down my wings. "Who's there?" I called out. But no one answered. I called again. Still no answer. The shuffling went away.
It happened multiple times and the shuffling drew closer each time. I crawled away from it until I was in a corner, staring so intently into the darkness and wishing for night vision. I couldn't see anything but I could hear it. It kept getting closer but it never touched me. Who else was in this room with me?
The door suddenly opened and warm light filled the room. Not a single soul but my own was in the room. It had all been in my head.
The guard put a plate of bread and cheese on the floor. Then closed the door, engulfing me in darkness once again. I crawled towards the plate, careful of my wings, when I heard the shuffling again directly in front of me.
No, that wasn't my imagination.
I crawled back into the corner and shifted so my good wing served as a barrier. Whatever was there would touch my wing first, giving me more reaction time. I stayed on my knees on the hard, stone floor for as long as I could. Then shifted on my side.
Eventually I fell asleep. Then woke to the feeling of someone grabbing me. I punched nothing but air and screamed into the darkness. It was all in my head.
I had no notion of time. The guard brought the same exact meal with the same exact portions every time. The light in the hall was always the same. I tried counting but every time I neared five or six hundred, the shuffling would start again.
I didn't move from my corner except to lunge for the plate of food while there was still light and run back to the corner before the shuffling would scare me.
I begged for Alastor. I cried for Sheba. I longed for Rosie. And I wished for Jor. Anyone to take me away. Anyone to save me. Anyone to care.
But I was all alone.
Well—
More shuffling.
Maybe.
~*~
Lucifer walked across the hot, flat terrain with the orange sun on his back. In the distance, he could make out a few dark bleary shapes. Sheba walked silently beside him. He glanced at her a few times and she offered him a tight smile every time, then turned back to glare into the horizon.
He had never known Sheba until the Archivist. Yet from the few interactions he'd had with the panther hybrid, he could tell she was just as reserved. She had a quiet intensity about her but anyone could tell she cared deeply for her friends. He could only imagine the guilt she must be feeling over losing both the Archivist and Charlie, even if she wasn't technically 'on guard'.
His thoughts went back to Charlie. His nerves wouldn't settle as the shapes took forms and he could clearly make out his daughter. His hands gripped the top of his cane in a white-knuckle grip, causing them to sweat like crazy in the heat. He could feel sweat drip down his back, too, despite the sun having already disappeared benath the horizon.
Adam wore that horrid looking mask and his giant, gold, metal wings. Meanwhile Lucifer, below the average height, walked up with nothing but his elongated white hat. He didn't know who the scout was, only that they were holding Charlie too tightly.
"Good ol' Lucifer, how ya doing?" Adam greeted in his language. Then he switched to Common, "Oh wait, you're used to Common Tongue. My bad." He chuckled. He snapped his fingers at the scout and she shoved Charlie into Lucifer, nearly sending both of them to the ground.
He steadied Charlie and touched her face and shoulders. His eyes scanned for any obvious signs of abuse, but to his great relief, there were none. She still had her hands behind her back but Sheba moved away from her offense stance in front of them to cut the rope loose with her claws.
"You're welcome for returning her unharmed," Adam said with a heavy sigh. "No big deal."
"What do you want?" Lucifer questioned, turning to face him.
"Well~, since you asked..." He planted his hands on his hips and smiled down his nose at Lucifer. "I have a hundred-and-fifty mini television boxes. I want them around the city."
Lucifer's eyes narrowed. "What for?"
"That's not part of the deal." His lips twisted higher in an ugly grin. "Either let me air drop those televisions or I take Charlie back with us. Up to you."
"What are you trying to broadcast?"
"Man you really haven't changed have you, Lucifer buddy? This isn't how negotiations work."
Lucifer felt his daughter send a questioning look his way. He ignored it and instead took a protective step toward her, knowing he had no other choice. "Fine. But not by air drop. You can bring them halfway and my people will take them from there."
Adam rolled a piece of dirt between his fingers. "They all have tracking beacons. So we can see if they're being kept in a room. Or if they've been destroyed. No funny business. I want your people to see what we're doing."
"What are you doing?" Charlie asked. Everyone blinked in surprise at her.
"Just proving something," Adam answered simply. "You can call it propaganda. Your people are used to it by now with the Radio Demon and everything. Tell me, how's his chest doing?"
"What about the Archivist?" Sheba asked.
Adam's smile faded as he looked the hybrid up and down. "I don't speak animal."
Sheba bristled and Lucifer quickly stepped in between them. He asked, "What do you want in exchange for the Archivist?"
"She's not up for sale," Adam said. "The auction house is closed. But if you put those televisions around your city like I asked, then I'm willing to reconsider."
Silence hung in the air for several moments. The first deal was done, but Lucifer wanted to press for the Archivist's return. He stared at Adam's smiling face, simmering in helpless anger. Eventually, he turned to Sheba. "Take Charlie back. I'll catch up with you in a minute."
Her eyes narrowed at Adam as her ears bent back. "I'm not sure that's smart—"
"Sheba, please. I'll be fine. Take Charlie back." He held the hybrid's eyes for a long, intense, and pleading moment. Thankfully, she got the message. But Charlie didn't.
"I'm not going anywhere without you, dad." She crossed her arms. "Whatever you want to say, you can say in front of me."
"Charlie, now's not the time—"
"Now is never the time," she argued. "I was just kidnapped and traded back for ransom. Whatever's going on, I'm a part of it now. And clearly you've been a part of them before."
"Ooo, things just got a little hot," Adam fake-muttered to his scout. "Princess has a mind of her own."
"Charlie, please. I can tell you everything later."
"No, dad. You always say that. I'm in the middle of it and I deserve to know more."
Adam giggled behind his hand. "Yeah she's a big girl now, daddy."
Sheba's lips pulled back in a snarl but her feet remained planted where they were. Adam wouldn't even look at her. He crossed his arms and watched the royal pair.
Charlie stood a head taller than her father, but the look she suddenly gave him made her appear like his little girl again. "I know something's up. Please...just include me, dad. I can handle it."
Lucifer looked over his daughter's beautiful, tired face. Her hair was disheveled but still in its braid, and her eyes were still bright. But there was determination in there. Determination she got from her mother. It was like she was standing there with them, watching over them.
He let out a long sigh. "Alright. Alright," he muttered.
He faced Adam. "We both know you don't need an Archivist. So what do you want with her?"
"That's for me to know and you never to find out."
"What did you promise her brother?"
"That's for me to know and you never to find out."
"Then why take her?" Lucifer asked. Adam stayed annoyingly quiet. "To get back at Alastor for getting the world to hate you? Or for demoting you?"
"I'm still the leader of the most feared White Angels!" Adam snapped. "If anything I've been promoted!"
"Is that why they haven't crossed the ocean yet?" Lucifer noticed Adam's right eye twitch. "Your comms tower has been operational for two weeks now."
Adam's smile vanished. "How the fuck do you know that?"
It was Lucifer’s turn to smile. "That's for me to know and you never to find out."
Adam scoffed. "Whatever. I've got the Archivist and soon I'll have Pentagram city. That's all that matters."
"And that makes everything better for everyone, doesn’t it?" Lucifer's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Of course." Adam puffed out his chest, making his wings glimmer in the dwindling light. "We're stabilizing the world."
"You're pruning it."
Adam's lips curled in a wicked smile. "That's not the only thing I'm pruning."
"You think you're correcting the world," Lucifer kept going.
"I am."
“But you’re actually erasing it."
"Isn't that what the Archivists do? Hide and erase parts of history that are ugly? I'm doing the same thing."
"And that makes it acceptable?"
Adam sighed dramatically. "She was always going to be used, you know. By the White Angels. The hybrids. You." He looked Lucifer up and down. "That's just the nature of the Archivists."
"And that makes it acceptable?" Lucifer repeated.
"It makes it inevitable."
Adam studied Lucifer for a few heartbeats. His eyes flickered to Charlie, then back again. "Did you ever regret leaving us?"
Lucifer's eyes widened a fraction. But then he looked at his daughter. He looked at her rosy cheeks, her soft, her messy hair, and the twinkle in her eyes. He stared back at what was left of his wife, still living on proudly.
"Maybe once," he answered slowly. "But not anymore."
"How sentimental." Adam made a vomiting sound.
"You're running out of time and resources." Lucifer turned back to him. "You called purity a strength but it was never enough to sustain you. Now you're just trying to survive. Like the rest of us."
Adam crossed his arms. "You know you really did fall far. You used to understand classification meant survival of the fittest. You used to preach it. But now look at you."
"Now I understand dehumanization," Lucifer returned. "And the strength that comes from relying on different kinds of people."
Adam briefly looked at Sheba. "They're not people, Luci."
"They're more human than you'll ever be."
Adam turned away sharply and his wings sliced open. "Your city exists because I allow it to exist. And everything inside it, including that Archivist, can be reclaimed and purified." Adam met Lucifer's eyes over his shoulder, then they moved to Sheba. “The Archivist isn’t leverage. She's a demonstration."
Sheba lunged with a snarl but he was up in the air in seconds. His jet pack carried him to the clouds with his scout close behind.
Next chapter will be up next Wednesday (hopefully).
This next part gets very dark and twisted, so putting myself in the mindset to write it after work takes time and a lot of effort. You can thank everyone who voted on my poll to see the actual interrogation scene played out ;)
Thank you to everyone who's commented so far! This story is not nearly as popular as my first, so I eat up your comments like you eat up my new chapters.
And thank you to those who like and reblog! It not only makes me feel good, but it helps boost my story to get in front of other Hazbin readers.
Now I must crawl back into my cave and write by candlelight. See you soon, Demi Demons!
Weird take on the whole barns and noble selling ai books…
By allowing fully ai books to be sold on the shelves, it’s automatically categorizing them. Which means we won’t have the issue of ai books getting discreetly slipped in with authentic books where you won’t realize it’s ai until you actually buy and read it.
It doesn’t matter if ai is on the shelves. What matters is what the consumers do. Don’t buy those ai books. Let them sit and collect dust and lose revenue on those shelves. I’ll be over in the AUTHENTIC section if you want to actually read something worth reading
Weightless by Rexlity is peak RadioStatic nostalgia music. Simple, quiet, and just sitting in the presence of each other in peace, something you rarely find in Hell. You can fight me on it
The Archivist's Oath || Alastor x Reader, Chapter 42: let’s be civil
Plot Summary: Alastor finds an Archivist who can translate Old World texts. Equally bound to their duty, you and Alastor traverse the tricky landscape of love and commitment…but to whom and to what?
Synopsis: We’re in the White Angel camp now...
Masterlist
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The White Angel camp wasn't what I expected.
I knew they had advanced technology and I knew they had base in a rocky-dune area to fight off sandstorms and Storm season. But when I heard the word "base" or "camp", I didn't picture a fully fledged self-reliant town.
Buildings were dug into dunes with their pointy metal sticking out of the rock and sand. Solar powered tarps hung between the tops of every building to provide shade while also harvesting solar power. The only thing that wasn't covered in metal were the pathways, unable to keep sand from constantly blowing between buildings. Sand got everywhere.
It was clear from the moment the scouts reached us that Jor had been in contact with them. They barely spared him a glance as they brushed past him to secure Charlie and I down with handcuffs and rope.
The princess hadn't lifted her head since we left the city. I could only imagine the hurt eating away at her from Vaggie's betrayal. The double-traitor walked ahead of the group with the other scouts as we were paraded through the center of camp.
The warriors crowded the streets, murmuring to each other and pressing close to us. They wore plain matching clothing, though there were more whites than light blues and greens, likely resembling a visual hierarchy. Most noticeably, they were wingless humans. Pure humans.
And they all stared at me.
Plenty of them were staring at Charlie, Pentagram City's only princess, but the rest were all watching me as I limped slightly along the way. They stared like I was a myth brought to life or the reason for their suffering. Whatever that may be. They certainly didn't look like they were suffering, but neither had Pentagram City when I first saw it.
I kept my wings and tail hidden, but my feet were a dead giveaway of my impurity.
We were led into a dune building and down a few flights of metal stairs. Charlie and I were separated and I was pushed into a small room, completely encased in metal. A wooden table with two chairs sat in the middle of the room, and a long, narrow mirror stared back at me on one of the walls.
Alone, I shuffled to the far corner of the room and waited. I wrapped my arms around myself as I stared into the floor, unable to look at myself in the mirror. It had to be some kind of psychological tactic to have a mirror in an interrogation room.
The absence of interrogation tools brought only mild relief. I had read and heard a few stories about an Archivist interrogation, and it never ended well for the Archivist.
I'd been through my own interrogation already. One could argue I'd been through a psychological one for months—
I scratched my head then grabbed a handful of my hair until it made my eyes sting. No, I couldn't think like that right now. I had to remember Alastor.
Alastor. Al. My partner.
My partner whose last words to him were in anger and confusion. Again.
I sniffled, wiped my nose on my sleeve, and slid down to the ground. My throbbing ankle was starting to bruise near the base of my foot, meaning I had a sprained ankle. Of course.
I started to shiver. The temperature was freezing underground and surrounded by nothing but metal made it worse. I could hear my own shaking from where my clothes touched the wall.
My mind strayed back to that little cell in Vox's district. I couldn't help it. The darkness, the metal, the fear, the shaking, the blood.
Then Alastor. Who had arrived just a few minutes too late to stop them, but came anyways and dished out punishment for harming me. Would be do the same again? Could he?
I tried not to think about him because I could only imagine what he must be feeling at my sudden disappearance. I didn't see what Jor had written or drawn on the floor, but I could guess what twisted thing he came up with.
Where was Jor? Was he going to tell me everything? Was he going to keep me from being interrogated if he had a deal with the White Angels? Did he have a deal? How did he even get in contact with them?
I shivered in that little room for what felt like an hour before someone walked in. I scrambled to my feet as the door squeaked open and nearly choked on air at the figure entering. He wore a pair of gold, metal wings, a long white robe, and a horned mask.
The scouts I'd come across in my oasis had been masked too, but this guy...
His horns were bigger, his teeth sharper, and just terrifying. He smiled at me pressing myself harder into the corner with one good foot.
"What up nerd?” He plopped into one of the chairs. A scout followed in behind him and stood in the opposite corner as me, arms behind their back at attention. "So you're little miss precious?"
It took my brain a few seconds to register that he was speaking Common Tongue.
My face must've shown my surprise because he said, "What? You seriously thought I wasn't going to learn how to speak your language? That's just stupid. I need to hear the plans on the radio. Speaking of radio..." he snapped his fingers at the mirror and the ceiling crackled like a speaker.
"—bury yourselves in your metal halls and try to convince yourself that I won't come for my Archivist. I will show you first hand that the stories about me were not exaggerated enough—"
Alastor.
"We've managed to royally piss off the royalty and the Radio Demon," the man laughed. He looked over his shoulder at the scout. "Talk about mad skills, am I right?"
"Right, sir," the scout answered curtly. It sounded like a woman.
"Oh right," he turned back to me, "the name's Adam. The first man to ever touch this unholy continent. I'd ask you for your name but I already know so much about you just from listening to those annoying daily broadcasts." He flexed his eyebrows.
He leaned forward to lean his elbows on the table and rest his chin on his hands. "You know, I'm surprise you can't understand English even though that's exactly what you spend your entire life translating."
The fact that he was speaking so fast and so much suggested he'd been practicing Common Tongue frequently. How long did they say the White Angels have been a problem? Five years? How many hybrids has he interrogated before killing them?
Would he do the same to me?
My foot pulsed in response, just like my nails used to when I was near Vox.
Adam made Vox seem...harmless wasn't the right word. Vox could do a world of damage if he really wanted to, but Adam...there was something not quite right about him. And that scout over his shoulder made it worse.
"Come sit. Let's be civil human beings."
I didn't move. His innuendo wasn't lost on me.
He sighed dramatically. "I guess you're worried about little miss cherry cheeks. But don't worry. Her deal is very simple and straight forward and completely harmless. Just gives me a little view inside Pentagram City. But youuuu," he twiddled his fingers at me, "are a different matter. So, come sit. Let's work it out."
Again, I didn't move. But silence felt like too bold of challenge after being told a second time to do something. "Where's Jor?" My shaking made my voice sound wobbly.
Adam leaned sideways with a bored look on his face. "Your brother is debriefing. We gotta get all the details he can remember while they're still fresh. And before he loses them." He smiled at the end.
He knew about Joe's seizures.
"So...come sit."
I saw the scout shift and rest their hand on a weapon at their hip. I couldn't tell what it was but I didn't need to know. I limped with heavy feet to the opposite chair and awkwardly sat down, making sure to keep the chair away from the table so I wasn't close to him.
"So, do you and your brother have the same genetic disorder?"
I shook my head.
"How many languages do you know? Common Tongue. English. Any others?"
I knew what he was trying to pull out, but I didn't know if I should answer. Either he didn't know or he was trying to see if I would lie.
"Archivist code." My voice sounded meak compared to Adam's boisterous one.
"Yeah," he scoffed, "you Archivists really are worried about people reading your books, huh? Pretty lame if you're so scared of humanity reading them. What's the point in preserving them if you're not going to share them anyway?"
I pressed my lips together.
"I bet you've had all kinds of arguments about it with your precious partner. You know, I think you're the only known Archivist to survive so long on the surface. The two Archivists we heard about were killed within a week after being brought to Pentagram City. Lucifer couldn't even hold onto a such a prized possession long enough for us to steal them. Until you, of course."
How wonderful.
"But enough chit chat. Here's my deal, Archivist. You translate one book for us—one. Single. Book. And we'll let you run off with your brother to hide in that little bunker of yours. Simple as that. You get your old life back. And your brother. What do you say?"
I blinked at him for a few seconds. "What book?"
"So glad you asked!" He looked at the scout and they peeled themselves away from the wall to open the door. A pair of arms handed a massive book through the gap then closed the door. The scout walked around the corner of the table and let it drop onto the table with a SLAM!
I stared at the unfamiliar book. The blue cover had real, sturdy binding and the title was written in the old language: The Book
Glancing at the White Angels, I slowly opened to the first page. The text was written is Archivist Code. So were the rest of the pages. I looked at the table of contents then gently skimmed the rest of the pages, noting a large number of drawings. I also noticed a discrepancy in the edges of the paper. It was almost as if someone had ripped the text out and replaced it with Archivist Code, keeping the images and sketches in fact but changing the text.
It was a survival book. It started from the basics like farming and clean water, and went all the way to "modern" technology that even I didn't recognize. It taught someone how to make medicine. How to make teeth braces. How to make an X-ray machine. It had every ounce of anatomy stuffed inside the pages.
It taught someone how to build a computer. It referenced the Internet, the book I had burned, but it didn't explicitly state how to access it again. This was humanity's one way ticket to restoring itself to the way it was before.
I looked up at Adam. He was watching me with a simple but ugly smile. I asked very simply, "Why do you want me to translate this?"
"Well what is it?" he asked instead.
"A survival guide."
His smile morphed. "An advanced survival guide. You can't hide behind your translations, Archivist. A picture is worth a thousand words and I understand every one of those pictures."
My hands slid off the paper and into my lap. "Why do you need it? You're advanced enough."
"To a degree," he nodded. "But I have a whole colony waiting for the green light to come over."
"Why? There should be plenty of land where you come from."
"That's for me to know and you to never find out~" he sang, tilting his head this way and that. His horns looked like they might catch the back of his chair if he wasn't careful.
"Just do your job." I stared up at the scout, shocked to hear her speak. And in Common for that matter. "You're a translator. That's all your meant to do. Translate."
My face hardened. "I do more than that."
"You do nothing but hide and translate for no reason."
"And yet you're asking me to do exactly that."
"Which is why you don't need to worry about what we do with the book after you translate."
I glanced strangely at Adam then shifted in my seat to face her more. "How much do you actually know about the Archivists?"
"That you hide in your little bunkers and translate old books into Common Tongue or Archivist Code. And that you decide who gets what information and when."
"And did you know that we have an oath?"
She just looked at me, uninterested.
My lungs started to shake as I started with my name, just as I did all those months ago. "...do solemnly swear to uphold the duty of the Archivist, guardian of Humanity's collective knowledge.
I vow to protect my Archive, preserving the truths of the past from corruption, destruction, and misuse. I shall remain steadfast in my duty, ensuring that this knowledge is kept safe, even at the cost of my own life or those I care for.
I pledge to seek truth above all, to distinguish fact from falsehood , and commit to maintaining the sanctuary of my Archive, allowing access only to those who prove themselves worthy and who understand the weight of the knowledge they seek.
I vow to resist any force that seeks to exploit my Archive for power, manipulation, or destruction. Should I be unable to protect my Archive, I shall ensure their contents are hidden, encrypted, or destroyed, rather than fall into unworthy hands.
Finally, I promise to pass on this duty to a successor who shares these principles, ensuring the unbroken lineage of the Archivists for as long as there is knowledge to maintain.
In taking this oath, I bind myself to the service of knowledge, history, and--above all--truth until my dying breath."
Adam blinked at me a few times. "Wow...what a performance."
"It seems she's refusing to answer, sir," the scout said in Common. Strange. That should've been something you say in your native language.
Adam looked at me. "Are you?"
"I am." My legs started to shake and my toes pulsed with something bordering on light pain.
The man scoffed in an almost laugh. "Seriously? I'm offering you freedom if you translate a single book and you're refusing it?" He gave a pained look and touched his chest. "So many hybrids would give anything to have that choice."
I'd never felt rage burst through my fingertips like it did. I don't even remember what I was angry about. The fact that he tortured and killed hybrids, that he said hybrids to emphasis my connection to them, or that he thinks anyone would ever want to be in my position as the ultimate decider of humanity's fate.
I didn't want to be the Great Decider. I never wanted to be it. I wanted to live in my bunker, translate my books, make dinner, and possibly have a lover. And at one point I didn't even want that. I wanted to give it all up and make the loneliness go away once and for all if I jumped off a building without my wings.
I was practically vibrating in my chair, barely holding onto my anger. I know he said something with that smug smile on his face but I didn't hear it. I was zoned in on him, looking over his body for all the soft spots and seeing if he wore any kind of armor under his clothes.
Then the door opened. And my rage vanished like a gust of wind had taken it away. Now, sadness filled my lungs like tears as Jor walked into the room. He wore white clothes with light blue tracing and his hair had been brushed back. He looked less like a prisoner and more like my brother.
He came around the table and leaned on the edge facing me. He touched my shoulder gently, looking deep into my eyes until it became hard to breathe.
"Let's go home," he said softly. "Then we can forget about this."
My heart leaped with joy, only to come crashing down a second later. Going home meant finding somewhere else to live. The bunker's location was compromised and all my books would be left in Pentagram City. Going home meant starting another life.
Going home meant leaving Alastor.
"I...I can't."
"Yes you can." His grip tightened a fraction. "You can make one more hard decision. And then we can go wherever we want."
I glanced at the White Angels. The scout now stood over Adam's right shoulder, both of them watching. Adam smiled and the scout glared.
Joe's voice brought my eyes back to him. "You never have to make a hard decision again."
"But it's...they're...I can't translate this. Not for them."
"Would you do it for Alastor?"
My mouth moved first before any real sound came out. "Some of it. Whatever they need to live better. The people themselves aren't bad. They deserve to live."
He moved his hand off my shoulder. "Why does it matter who asks?"
"Because intent matters," I argued. "Because so far all my translations have been used to improve Pentagram City. To improve the lives of every soul in that ravine. But them?" I gave a quick jerk of my head towards the White Angels. "They've been hunting hybrids since they got here. You hate Alastor for the terror he's brought to the land but you're working with people who go mass murdering hundreds of little communities because we're not pure."
My tone grew serious. "What did they promise you?"
Jor just looked at me.
"What. Did. They. Promise you?"
"Your freedom," he answered simply.
"And?"
"And nothing."
"You're lying to me."
Jor stood and leaned down so we were eye level. "Just translate the book and we can go home. And we can pretend none of this happened and go back to the way things were."
I thought of Alastor. I thought of the first night we spent on the roof, staring at the stars. I thought of the festival when we danced together. I thought of the quiet moments in the attic and on the couch. I thought of the soft touches, the sweet words, and the promises. I thought of the nights we laid together, and of the quiet moments when I listened to his breathing.
Then I thought of Sheba. I remembered the way she looked hurt when I didn't tell her something or the way she smiled when I shared a fun detail between Alastor and I. Her words and her support carried me through the darkest time in my life.
And I thought of Rosie, an equally important person in my life. Her guidance set me up to succeed wherever I went.
And I thought of Amber and Abba, the friends who taught me how to have fun. And Husker and Angel Dust, who brought out my real personality from under a carpet of social anxiety.
My eyes finally met Jor's. "I don't want to forget any of it."
He grabbed my hand in my lap, his eyes wide with desperation. "Please trust me on this. Please. I know what's best for yo—"
"You left!" The words echoed off the walls too loudly. I lowered my voice and said, "You left us. You left Mother and Grandmother. You left me. You could've come back at any point but you didn't. You left me alone and now all of a sudden you want everything back?"
Jor knelt in front of me, still gripping my hand. "Please, there's some things you don't know. You don't have the full picture. If you want to go back to that stupid city then fine. But at least translate this book."
My eyes drifted to the book. Then up at the White Angels. Their faces were impassive now. Well, Adam's was impassive and the scout still glared at me. There was something else at play here and if not, an interrogation that would turn as violent as the one I'd face with Valentino and Vox.
For my friends, I couldn't translate that book for the White Angels.
I pulled my hand out from under his and watched something shift in his eyes. "It's a survival framework," he said. "It's not a weapon. It's not going to sit like a guilty conscious."
"That's exactly what it's going to do," I argued. "Framework is all they need to make more weapons to kill more hybrids."
Jor pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
"Weren't you just yelling at me for sharing texts with Pentagram City?" I challenged.
"Yes! Because you willingly gave those up."
"And now I'm choosing not to give it up."
"Then how about just a page? What if you translate just a single page?"
"Why do you want me to translate it so bad?" I could feel the White Angels' eyes burning into the side of my skull. "What did they promise you?"
"You're freedom."
"Since when did you ever care about that?" I snapped. "You left our family. You left me alone. Chained to those books all on my own with no one to talk to."
"How was I supposed to know they were gonna die so soon? Mother should've lived for another two decades."
"Mother died of heartache. She loved you."
"She loved you."
Tears burned in our eyes as we stared each other down. Jor was the one to break the silence. "Just translate one page. Then you can run back to your precious demon prince."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because one page is all they need. They'll get the key to the code just from a single page and then they can translate the whole thing themselves." I tried not to picture Alastor's face. "Hell they can read half of my Archive since it's all written in the same language they speak. Archivist Code is the one thing we have left and I'm not about to give it up just because they promised you something sweet."
"I think we've heard enough." Adam folded his hands on the table. "I appreciate the effort bossman, but you're not really helping. We'll take it from here."
"Wh..." Jor straightened up. "What does that mean?"
"It means we'll take it from here."
"What are you going to do to her?"
My heart started hammering inside my head.
"Don't worry, buddy. I won't kill her. Just like I promised. But she needs some...persuading."
My breathing was getting too loud.
Jor started to say, "But phase two is—"
"Is a Plan B," Adam finished for him. "If we can get what we need without having to go into all that, then we won't." The scout moved away from Adam and towards the long end of the table.
"But...she's not...she's..."
Adam stood and the chair scrapped back painfully loud. "Relax buddy. She's an Archivist. She's strong. She'll know when she's reached her limit. And if she doesn't give us the page, we'll use Plan B."
A click of metal.
My head snapped up as the scout pointed a pistol at Jor's temple. His eyes widened. The world seemed to stop until I saw Jor's chest move as he tried to control his breathing. He looked back at me, and I looked at the ground. No one said a single word.
My vision pulsed as I heard the shuffling of feet fade into the background. Then the door closed.
"Now then." Adam cleared his throat. "I managed to put a gaping hole in the Radio Demon's chest and he still managed to survive. Let's see if we can replicate that magic, shall we?"
Within an hour, there was blood everywhere. Within four hours, I was devastatingly sick.
respectfully, it’s not “extra” (all you have to do is copy and paste).
ao3 literally advises that people copy-and-paste their works from elsewhere and to NOT write directly onto the site.
because unless and until it’s posted, ao3 does NOT back up works for you. meaning if your screen crashes, if the site glitches, if your wifi stops working, or if you lose power — anything — you risk losing the whole thing you’ve written.
sure, you can technically save drafts on ao3 (up to 30 days, if memory serves me right), but it’s still not something most writers do. most writers copy and paste their own works from elsewhere onto ao3 prior to posting (I say this with respect, this is a common sense).
store your works elsewhere, keep them safe, then copy-and-paste them onto ao3 once they’re ready.
I’d like to point out this goes for Tumblr too! It doesn’t auto save for every single word you write, and sometimes it doesn’t even save correctly. PLEASE write your fanfics somewhere else! <3
My first try at writing Vox and Alastor's dynamic because it hath possessed me. Thanks to Brandi, PN, and R for being encouraging while I took a shot at this. I hope you enjoy it!
_________________________________________________
"You're fucking mine." Laughter bubbles up from Vox's chest; manic, heady; reverberating off the walls of Vee Tower and making Alastor's ears flatten. He walks up, his screen inches from Alastor's nose, and cocks his head to one side, grinning like a fool. "Get comfortable, Al! Have a seat!" Two hands suddenly shove directly into Alastor's chest, pushing him back into a wheeled chair with enough force that the thing immediately tips, and Alastor's teeth gnash together as his head hits the floor. Sparks dance before his eyes and his restiched wound throbs.
Welp.
A cable snakes up his stomach languidly, before slipping around him; Alastor suppresses a full shudder, but can't entirely stop the ripple of something that passes through him. There is something almost... affectionate, in the way the cable curls around Alastor, gentle for a moment, before tightening- tightening til an involuntary sound escapes him, his teeth clenching- drawing him and the chair upright once more, only now he is very much bound to it. He can feel Vox's eyes on him.
"Still smiling." Vox approaches, gripping his chin with clawed fingers. He smirks. Alastor pushes down the urge to bite him. "Now don't look so excited." He laughs again and slaps some sort of device over Alastor's mouth-- he catches sight of it, reflected in Vox's screen-- a forced frown? To the seventh ring, this man is so damned needy.
For those of you who like RadioStatic/Silence, this is a fun little snippet that really encompasses their canon dynamic. Definitely give the whole thing a read!
So…gonna be real with you. I didn’t have the ending planned. I had an IDEA! But that’s probably why I haven’t been updating as much.
Also, I’m in finals week of my grad program. I’m almost done with school for good! 🎓
Anyways, I’ve now finally outlined the ending for Archivist’s Oath so expect some delicious updates in the very near future. It’s…oh boy…it’s gonna be emotional.
To make up for it, HERE's a random Vox snippet I wrote a while ago and then rewrote this weekend instead of studying for my finals. Enjoy!
Vox, a disgraced genius in the city that never ends, fights in an underground ring where nobody knows his face or his name. Then she walks in.
Neither of them are the same person they were before. But she sits there, with seven years of awkward history between them, and fixes his broken head.
Genre: heavy cyberpunk
===============================
The Endless City didn't have a horizon. District after district, sector after sector, building after building all stacked on top of each other. It was a glittering masterpiece of human engineering until you looked in the places where sunlight never reached.
The city never ends because it never stopped needing more space. Human population skyrocketed in the late 2100s and stayed that way, even as crime climbed alongside it. No matter how many millions of people died, millions more kept spawning. Only those who were born on the outskirts of the city know what a 'normal' horizon looks like.
But somewhere in the Quartz District, near the center of the city where everything is bright white and names actually mean something, was a man who changed what it meant to be human.
Vox was twenty-two when he first started his climb to fame. A brilliant coder. An innovative genius. And charming. He had a face that cameras adored, ideas that people obsessed over, and a mind like no other. His name had a four-sector radius on all sides and when other celebrities caught wind of a charming genius on the rise, his influence kept growing. Valentino and Velvette were among the first to take him on the ride to fame.
His early work started in bio-tech integration. He created better interfaces, smoother transitions, and longer battery cycles. He was a modern Robinhood helping those less fortunate. He improved biotech in his sector and put con-artists out of business while he racked up bigger income.
It was just a warmup.
Because when he was off camera, he was working on something else. Something that pushed the boundaries of biotech and mind-to-machine synchronization. He wanted to see just how far the human mind could go.
That meant understanding consciousness. And if it could be moved.
After years of repeated failure, he finally announced his success. It was a Tuesday at six in the evening. He sat in front of a live, global broadcast with a television where his head had been and a pixelated smile. As soon as he said the word hello, the world stopped breathing.
Then collectively screamed.
How could anyone be calm about this? Vox had achieved immortality. He had achieved the one thing scientists had been trying to do since the mid-20th century—the 1950s!
For five years, Vox was a global celebrity. He became a fixed point which everything else moved around. Biotech evolved overnight. New systems, new virtual realities, new mind-to-machine language, all of it. Everyone could upgrade their minds and neurons like a new update on their phone. All because a man with a TV for a head breathed on-air.
Of course, people started wearing screens where their faces used to be. It became the Vox aesthetic. They found cheaper ways to look expensive, as people often do, for reasons ranging from medical necessity to a fashion statement. All over the streets were screens that projected emotions, ran advertisements, or displayed whatever the person underneath wanted the world to see.
Yet none of them were Vox.
People put screens over their consciousness. Vox had moved his consciousness into the screen. People updated their body with machines, fixed their mind with software, or simply hid in virtual reality while their bodies wasted away. Vox wasn't anchored to his body. If he wanted to, he could die and rebuild a body entirely from machine parts and move his mind into it.
But he couldn't do it for everyone. They had tried. He had tried. But experiments resulted in fragmented minds or lost memories, reducing the person to a blank slate without even a personality basis. So, they put the project aside.
Everyone wore a digital mask, but Vox was something else entirely.
But all good things come to an end, even if Vox never could. It started with reports leaked to the public. Then direct accusations. Misconduct. Ethical violations (which were practically nonexistent already). Stories came in waves, each one cresting harder than the last.
He'd kept his reputation in check for years, but the stories this time ran rampant and his responses to them were weak. He became erratic and said things on-air without thinking. To everyone watching, and everyone was watching, the guy was falling apart.
The press landed with the term breakdown. A less generous term was unraveling. But the cruelest one was malfunctioned. Because he was, after all, more machine than man. Perhaps something in his system failed and messed with his consciousness.
And just when everyone was expecting a psychotic breakdown on live television, he disappeared. He vanished on a Tuesday—ironic—and no one could find him. People expected him to resurface, claiming he went on a retreat to fix his mind. But after a two years, everyone knew he was gone.
And the world moved on. As it always does.
[ | ]
That was seven years ago.
The underbelly of the Silver District was a city beneath another city. A lot of districts simply built on top of itself until it reached the mesosphere. Artificial sunlights were the only physical indicators of the time of day with their slowly changing colors to mimic the real sun from sunrise to sunset. Not that anyone payed attention or cared about them. The city never sleeps and neither does its districts. Besides, people only knew how to read digital clocks.
The Silver District got its name from building everything out of straight, raw metal. It shined and sparkled but required constant upkeep so it wouldn't rust and look impoverished. The underbelly, where no one lifts a finger, was rightfully called the Rust Lanes. It smelled like blood, coolant, and all the other wonderful smells from humans living so close together.
Also, it was loud. With nothing to buffer sounds, everything bounced off the walls, the ceiling, and the ground. And rusted metal leaves gaping holes.
The fighting rings run three times a week. It's the only thing that brings people together—aside from sex, alcohol, and battery stations. Fighter entry is two credits, watching is five, and seats are ten.
She had not meant to be there. She had been two streets over finishing a maintenance call for a biotech knee that had been misfiring for a week. It was the kind of work that dragged her out of Retro Town when she was low on money.
People who couldn't afford neurotech still relied on biotech. As someone who specialized in biotech and biocoding, she was always on call fixing body parts that clinics priced too high to fix. She made little on each task, but the sheer amount of calls made up for it when she needed extra cash. Lately it was getting in the way of her other projects.
She walked past the crowd as she always did on Wednesday nights when the rings were open. But she caught sight of someone she didn't want to see. Someone whom she owed money to and didn't want to risk him asking for his payment two weeks early.
She sent five fresh credits to the bouncer's account and walked into the pushy, sweaty, and rambunctious crowd. She picked a spot against the wall and crossed her arms, head down. She didn't need anyone messing with her tonight. But she felt oddly safe, as much as anyone can be in this city, as the match went on. Everyone was so focused on the fighting that no one even so much as looked in her direction.
She glanced up just as they dragged the unconscious loser out of the ring. The ring itself was all plastic-glass, held up by a wall of chains on the edges. Technically, she was underneath it. It's like a glass ball wedged between two floors. Those who could pay extra had the best seats up top where they could see the fight better. But down here, people happily raged on when a fighter's face got smashed into the glass floor.
Neon lights flashed fast enough to give someone epilepsy as the new contestant walked in. They circled each other slowly while the announcer called out their fighter names and reminded people to bet in the next fifteen seconds.
But she couldn't hear any of it. The noise of the crowd muffled as she zoned in on the new fighter. It couldn't be. Could it? A copycat maybe? It had to be. But if it wasn't?
He was bigger than she remembered. His shoulders looked reinforced and his biceps actually filled his sleeves. His legs were just as narrow but his thighs were thicker, packed with hard muscle and tissue.
There was no way to tell if it was all fake, like a stimulating drug, or if it was real muscle. She guessed the former. Then again, he had been picky about changes to his body despite the change to his entire fucking head.
The head which was an older, slightly boxier television. There were little cracks across the screen and the whole thing looked barely held together by gaff tape.
That gave him away. At least to someone who knew him well enough. Black gaff tape blended with the black edges of his screen, it didn't leave any residue behind, and it was more heat-resistant than duct tape.
She stared numbly with almost eight years of complicated feelings sitting on her chest as she watched Vox fight in a ring where nobody knew his real name. Just how the press had never gotten her name right. Because she had always been careful about things like that, but also because Vox never let the cameras touch her.
She had left him before his fall from grace. It had been quiet and no one even knew until months later when he finally admitted he wasn't in a relationship anymore. No one knew who she was, so no one could find her. And it stayed that way, just how they both wanted.
[ | ]
Vox hated fighting with women, verbally and physically. Men were brutal but women were savages. They always packed a mean kick and he could never get inside their guard. He would be lucky to get a single hit on her head, and he had to make it count if he did.
But as soon as she got him down to one knee, she went wild. The crowd roared with approval when she smashed his head into the floor with an audible shatter. She crunched the metal backing to his head and yanked a fistful of wires out. He didn't get up.
He was dragged from the ring and the next fighter stepped in.
They left him on the floor in the medic station. When he tried to breathe it felt like knives squeezing between his ribs. His screen glitched and fuzzed, but he could still see for the most part. He groaned as he pulled himself to his feet. Outside, he fumbled in his bag for his keys when a boot slammed into his already-bruised ribcage.
He hit the pavement and the boot stomped on his chest. He barely lifted his head before a rod impaled his screen all the way through, pinning him to the ground.
He heard more than he saw. Men yelled and cursed at a passerby, then there was beating of fists on bodies. He heard the crashing of trash bins in the distance as they ran down the street.
Footsteps approached him slowly and he just laid there, unable to do anything with the rod still jammed inside his head. He should feel lucky that his attackers didn't know his real identity, or else they would've known that his brain wasn't inside his television head.
His vision missed ten frames at a time as the hooded person stood over him. The dim alley light from above blocked out their face as they stared down at him.
Between glitches they yanked the rod out and he screamed, curling over on his side like a child. His hand shook where he pressed it against the hole in his face.
"Vincent."
His trembling stopped. He recognized that voice. He rolled onto his back again and stared hard through the delayed, glitchy frames. The figure stood above him one second then knelt closer the next. He could hardly believe his eyes. He even thought he might be hallucinating until she grabbed his arm and hoisted him to unstable feet.
The lagging frames and shooting pain were too much for him. He turned off his screen entirely and leaned on his rescuer as they walked down the street.
"What are you?" she asked, plain and simple, like they were strangers. Well, they practically were at this point.
Vox's foot scuffed a piece of metal trash. "Neurotech. But still human. No doctor. Just home."
Somehow he managed to spit out his address and she called a rental car. He'd pay her back, of course. Even though she insisted she didn't want it.
She helped him into the car, careful of his broken rib, and surprised him by getting in the car with him. The door closed soundly and the world paused for a few blissful seconds as she sent the driver his address.
The silence broke when the car lurched forward, pinching his injury. He grimaced and clung to his side, barely managing to breathe through tight lips. She kept a hand on his shoulder the whole time to keep him as steady as possible on the fast moving car.
He still had his screen off but he could tell it was a cheap ride just from the sheer fact that the car stayed on solid ground. He never felt the slight dip when a car transitioned from ground to air. Or maybe it did and he was in too much pain to notice.
Vox's body was sweating from the slight exertion. It felt like half an hour to his apartment, just sitting there and writhing in pain. Why hadn't he been more careful when he left the rings? He'd been jumped before in that alley from people trying to make a quick cash grab from an exhausted fighter.
Finally they reached his apartment. She grabbed his arm and help him slide out of the car. He tripped on the pavement but she held him up, bracing herself against his good side and putting his arm around her shoulders.
Somehow they made it up the stairs. He couldn't remember anything between leaving the car and being laid down on the dirty couch. He sighed as the weight lifted off his ribs and he could breathe a little better. But it still hurt like a bitch.
"You can leave now," he said with a blank screen.
His hand patted around on the floor beside him to search for the cord that connected him to his computer. He tried plugging it into his head but his rib protested when he reached up.
He flinched when her hands touched his, light as a feather, and plugged the wire in for him. He leaned his body head back on the round armrest. He felt that slight tingle in his brain like rubbing your face on a balloon, only internal. The next moment his mind crackled back together and he stared through his main computer's camera.
His breath caught at the sight of her sitting on the edge of the couch next to him, staring at his empty screen. It was almost sad, the way she waited for him to come back to life. But comforting in a way to him that he hadn't felt in years.
The sight didn't last long as the bright light from his main computer lit up the entire room. She looked up at him with a dark mix of emotions in her eyebrows.
"You can leave now," he said again, his voice coming out much smoother through the computer speakers. "I'll heal overnight." The advanced neurotech still embedded in his body was the only thing keeping him alive.
"What about your head?"
"I'll fix it once my rib heals."
"I can fix it for you."
Vox gave her a dubious look. "Why?"
"Because I'm here now and I'm able to help?"
He scanned her for any kind of weapon. "How do I know you're not back for revenge? And how did you know it was me anyways?"
"Well, I'd be putting a dog out of its misery if I killed you," she said first. He gave her a flatline glare. "And...I don't know. I could just tell it was you."
He didn't believe her. Something had to have given him away. She noticed everything. It's why he had always ran his coding through her first before testing it.
She took a deep breath. "And you're the only one who uses gaff tape, not duct tape."
There it is.
"But why do you want to help me?" he asked again. She looked down at his lifeless body. He could still move it, and he even debated on trying to scare her by suddenly moving, but remembered his injured rib and thought better.
"I can still have empathy for my ex when I see him fall off the mountain he spent his life climbing."
Vox didn't like that. "You don't need to help me. We didn't exactly end on good terms."
"Or bad terms." She looked up at his computer, reading the surprise on his pixelated face. He also looked...hurt. Well, time and trauma did that to someone. She'd seen enough online about him to know half of what he'd been going through since they broke up all those years ago.
She let him stew in his emotions for a bit longer and dragged the back of her finger along the edge of the less broken side of his face. "I noticed you're using an older version of TVs."
"It's harder to track older ones. A-And you can't really recognize me since all I used were the new flat screens," he finished quickly, trying to cover up his initial response.
She shrugged and leaned forward to look on the backside of his head. "Is it the same process?"
"For the most part. That head's a bust. I have an extra one in my bedroom. Under the bed on the right side. RIGHT side!" he called after her.
She smiled as she went into his bedroom, which sat directly behind the living room. His entire apartment was tiny, dark, cramped, filled with wires, and dirty.
Just as she suspected, random broken tech littered his bedroom like a hoarder. She couldn't even walk to the other side of the bed it was so crowded with computer parts. The only side clear enough to walk through was the right side.
She looked under the rickety metal frame and dragged out the extra TV. It was several versions older than the one he currently wore; much more boxy and even had dials on the front. Nostalgia filled her lungs and she breathed it out, hauling the heavy TV back to the living room. She expected the bedroom light to wink out behind her, courtesy of Vox's mind, but it didn't. Not this time.
She could still remember what it was like to live in his apartment - inside his mind. His apartment was always exactly how she pictured his mind would look: dark except for the bright computer screens, littered with cables, and in synch with everything. He used to turn lights off just by thinking, or open the door for her exactly when she arrived, or start the water filter when she would get up in the middle of the night.
It was endearing the way his mind followed her and anticipated her every move, especially for someone so obsessed with his own image.
This apartment though...something felt off. It didn't feel like being inside his mind. It felt different. Which surprised her at first, given his past obsession to sync everything together, but the heavy box in her arms reminded her that he wasn't the same person seven years ago.
"Can your neck even support this?" she asked, walking back to the couch. She placed it on the ground and dragged a toolbox from between the couch and the wall.
The screens on his desk brightened. "It'll be a bitch to deal with but I use this whenever I need to get a new head."
She sat next to his body and peeled his bloodied collar away from the large expanse of wires that made up his neck. She used a small flashlight to look at the wires.
"It's easy to disconnect," he told her. "Open the back cover and disconnect the big wires from the base of my head first. Not from my neck. And please be careful."
She smiled smugly over her shoulder. "Still sensitive there?"
He gave her a flat stare. She chuckled at her own joke and put the mini flashlight between her teeth. There were four massive wires and several tiny ones filling up the space in between them. She pushed, twisted, and pulled the big navy blue wires. The wires were stiff from needing to keep his head up, so she had to push against his frame as much as she could to disconnect the unbendable wires.
She let the large wires drape over his chest and worked on the smaller ones. They bent more easily and some had fluids dripping out of them. Every now and then his body twitched in response.
"I remember when this was a lot more complicated," she muttered around the flashlight. She shifted closer for a better angle, overly conscious of where her hip touched his arm.
Vox sighed. "I can't spend two days trying to adapt the wires between all the different vers—OW! Fuck! I said careful!"
"It slipped!" She yelled back, ignoring his angry little screen. "Jeeze."
"That fucking hurt," he grumbled.
She disconnect the rest of the wires and put his broken screen on the ground. She hauled the newer—older?—screen up in her lap. She flipped it upside down and unscrewed the cover to expose the wire connector. The adapter looked bright spanking new compared to the vintage look of the TV head.
"Good thing everyone still uses the old Phillips head screwdrivers," she joked. When Vox didn't respond, she glanced over at the computer.
"Uh yeah—" he cleared his throat, "I think that would cause a riot."
She put the TV on the armrest and used one hand to keep it from falling. "Lay down more," she said. He listened, shifting his headless body down a fraction. "I remember when you couldn't do that."
"Do what?"
"Move without a head." She connected the little wires first. She leaned over his body, flashlight still in her teeth, and tried to focus on the wires and not the two centimeters of space between her chest and his.
Aside from the awkward angle, the little wires weren't a problem. But the big wires were. They had more resistance so it was hard to get the ends over the adapter opening. Vox twitched under her in slight pain but kept his complaints muted.
The thought of straddling him crossed her mind but she pushed it away as soon as it had come up.
Eventually she managed to get all four wires connected and screwed the cover back on. The little blue lines on his collarbone blinked a few times, signaling a new connection.
She watched and waited for his face to light up on the new head, but apparently he was talking and didn't realize he was still muted. She looked up right as he unmuted himself.
"Great! One more thing." He cleared this throat. "Look in the broken head and find the memory drive. There should be a slot for it in my new head."
"You couldn't have asked me to do that before I put your head on?" She unscrewed the backing to his broken head and disconnected the memory drive. She did the same to his new head and put the memory drive in the only spot that looked big enough for it. Then screwed the backing of his head back on.
She jumped when his arm moved behind her, tapping the ground in search of a capable. She took it from his hands, which looked thinner than she last remembered, and plugged it into the back of his head.
Then she waited.
Vox's face vanished from his computer and the hum of static pulsed from the new head. Nostalgia poked her in the side like a thorn at the sight of his pale, gray, pixelated face. A long, thin crack ran from one corner of the screen to the other, but otherwise it worked just fine.
His old smile turned up at two ninety degree angle, unable to make a smoother curve like his newer screens. He looked...cute. Sweet. Dorky. Nothing like the walking ego she'd grown used to seeing.
Her fingers glided on the bottom of his screen and thumbed the dial but nothing changed. His screen glitched once and he blinked up at her, still smiling.
"Is this the original one?" she asked.
"No." His smile turned upside down and he glanced away. "I lost it at some point. Didn't really have a reason to keep it."
"Why is your memory on a hard drive?" she asked next.
"It's easier."
She flicked his screen but he didn't react. "Bullshit. You were all about syncing things up to your mind. And earlier you said it's not easy to track the vintage TVs." She paused, letting him read her tense expression. "Are you running from something?"
She thought his screen froze from how still he was, but then it glitched again before he answered. "I just don't want to be found. People would go crazy if they found out I was still alive. And...I don't want to go back there..."
"I thought you were a copy cat at first."
"That's why I use the older versions. Besides, it's been long enough since I was big news. Most of the underground doesn't even know my name."
She nodded. "It's easy to get lost."
"Exactly how I want it."
Her face saddened as she rubbed her fingers lightly down the side of his screen. She didn't say anything for a long minute, just staring at where her fingers touched his screen. She felt the static that vintage TVs always had.
Her finger stopped and their eyes met. She said so softly, "What happened to you?"
His eyes widened. Then narrowed as his face followed the motions to cry even though he couldn't on this version. He probably couldn't even feel her touch but his eyes had been glued to her finger the whole time.
"A lot." His voice wobbled. "So fucking much."
She touched the other side of his head like she was holding his face. His screen fuzzed in and out as he tried to regain his composure. Her hands moved down his neck and over his shoulders where he could actually feel her.
He grabbed her wrists carefully and closed his eyes, absorbing the feeling of her touching him - of a gentle, caring touch without strings attached. He moved one of her hands back to his face but she knew he wasn't able to feel it. Which only made it worse.
His chest jerked up and down as he fought off a panic of some kind. His grip on her wrists turned bruising without realizing and his feet pushed against the couch cushions despite his injuries. His body was trying to react without the ability to cry.
She leaned down and kissed the part of his screen over his mouth. His whole body froze. Except for his eyes, which blinked up at her, completely dumbfounded. Like he didn't believe it because he hadn't been able to feel it.
She flattened her hand against his chest. "Take a deep breath, Vincent."
He listened. He winced when it twinged his broken rib but it was enough to distract him and stop him from spiraling.
"Why did you do that?" he managed.
She couldn't tell if he was annoyed or just surprised. "I dunno.”
"I thought you didn’t like me anymore."
"No, Vincent." She ran her fingers over the top of his head like she was moving imaginary hair out of his face. "I've always liked you. The real you. But things just weren’t working out for us."
"You said you hated me."
"We said a lot back then," she countered gently. She rubbed his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. He reached up to press it harder against his shirt, like he was afraid she would pull away.
He stared up at her with his big round eyes. "I've missed you. A lot."
"You've been too busy to miss me." She looked around at all the lonely cables. She was referring to his obsession with work, as well as his many girlfriends after her.
"It always felt hollow." He reached up to touch her chin but thought better of it, and dropped his hand back onto his chest. "You were right. No one would ever love me like you did."
She glanced back at him, regretting some of the things she'd said that night. "We were both hurting.”
"I wish I'd been better."
"What's past is past. I forgave you a long time ago." She avoided his gaze no matter how hard he tried to get her to look at him. She could hear the slight hum from the computers and the tiny crackles in the air from his new head. She wanted to lay on his chest and feel the hum of his body directly against her cheek.
She slapped her knees and jumped up. "Well, I'm sure you want to restart yourself so you can heal your rib tonight."
"Yeah," he mumbled. "Thanks again for helping."
She looked over her shoulder. Then stepped over the mess of wires towards the door.
But she stopped. He watched her from the couch as she turned around and walked back over to him. He thought she was going to hit him or something, but instead she asked, "What are you doing tomorrow?"
He short-circuited at the disarming question. "N-Nothing. I think."
She stared at him in silence while she had an internal debate. "Why don't we meet up tomorrow? I know a place you might like."
His heart skipped a beat. "Uh, y-yeah! Sure."
"I'll come back around eleven. Sound good?"
"Yeah. Sounds great!" He tried not to sound too excited.
"Good." She awkwardly stared at him for a moment. Then leaned down and kissed the top of his screen, making the hair on her neck stand up from the static. He felt warm on her lips.
She patted the top of his TV. "That's for being a good boy."
"You said past is past!" he yelled at her retreating form, his face alight with a blue blush. "Don't bring shit up like that!"
"I'll see you at eleven!"
Then the door closed, leaving him alone in his dark apartment. His fingers touched the spots on his screen where she had kissed him. He hadn't felt them. The vintage screens didn't have neurotech or biotech. That was something he first figured out once he'd moved his conscious into the digital sphere.
His fingers curled into a fist and he punched the cushion without hurting his rib.
Fuck his luck. Of all the things he just had to get his screen broken and use a vintage one that couldn't feel shit. She'd kissed him TWICE!
He had trouble breathing through the upsetness of a lost opportunity and angrily plugged his neuro charging cord into his chest. He needed to sleep it off.
===============================
Author’s Note:
I thought about making it NSFW but I was writing this when I was supposed to be studying for finals. And it didn’t feel right in the moment given their complicated history. But maybe in the very very near future there’s some spicy action…we’ll see how I feel about this.
Also, I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to do first person POV or make it an OC.
If you like the way I write Vox, you can also check out another random short HERE.
I’m sorry, demi demons. No chapter today. A lot has happened in the past two weeks, but I’m hoping to get a new chapter out soon. Check back next Wednesday!
And for those of you in finals, I’m sending you all the luck <3
happy world creativity and innovation day my dear fellow creators! this day is for you. the doodlers in the margins, the midnight idea-havers, the writers who invent whole universes because reality wasn’t enough. it’s for every messy draft, every wild experiment, every “what if” that spiraled into something new. go make weird things today, it’s literally your holiday.
Back in high school, I would hide my “writing notebook” underneath my school spiral notepad (back when we had to write by hand). I would copy class notes down and then switch notebooks, that way it looked like I was actually taking notes
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