Chapter Text
It had been a few months since Vox had attempted a murder-suicide of Alastor and half the pride ring.
The Vees were still active, broadcasting their shows, manipulating lowly sinners into buying their products through television and social media. Vox was no longer the star of the show and, for all intents and purposes had disappeared. He tried not to think about it too much.
Alastor was free from any chains and had been pulling the strings of the hotel residents in the shadows. His staff and power was still intact and he reveled in feeling more powerful than he had ever been in life or death.
He looked at himself in the mirror, the top two buttons undone, cigarette in one hand, the angelic wound visible. These days it was a dull pain, something he could easily ignore. While Rosie wasn't able to make it vanish completely it appeared she was at least able to minimize the pain he had previously felt.
He raised the filter to his mouth, inhaling deeply then blowing the smoke out in a calm manner. Once it was down to the filter he stubbed it out in the ashtray.
Taking off his shoes, he retired to his bed deep in the bayou, one of the few reminders of his previous life. He pondered his goals briefly before his mind drifted off to the events months prior. Him being saved by an angel which he scowled at; he didn't like the idea of feeling like he owed the seraphim anything for saving his life, something he didn't ask for. Him crawling on the cold floor, bleeding out, pitiful fawn noises escaping him. The manic gleam in Vox's eyes, tear stricken, exclaiming how he was going to kill everyone, not caring that it would wipe out himself and the whole city.
Alastor had known he was obsessed, that much was obvious, and yet he had underestimated the depths of that obsession. 70 years of pent up rage and knowing he had lost his hold over him had broken his mind to a point he didn't think was possible. Time had passed, but the memories still plagued him often. The words, "as long I wipe that smile off of Alastor's fucking face, I don't care what happens," rang in his head as he drifted off to sleep.
Alastor's eyes flitted open, he blinked until his blurred vision cleared. He sensed something ominous, the strands of the hair on his neck standing up. He promptly sat up and scanned his surroundings. Squinting he saw a glowing red eye staring back at him from the darkness. Like a beast the figure stalked towards him slowly, as if calculating its movements. He wondered briefly if he was in a dream as no one dared to come in his quarters and even if they had he wouldn't be sure how they would have gotten in without him noticing.
Out of the shadows emerged a familiar screen, the light faintly glowing in the otherwise peaceful bayou.
Vox.
Something was very wrong, there was a manic intensity in his eyes, even more so than when he had been standing on top of the angelic weapon meant to annihilate him.
He had been so distracted from the sudden intrusion that he hadn't realized the eye staring back at him had started rippling in circles like a pond disrupted by a pebble thrown in the water.
The last thing he remembers is Vox's pulsating eye, his voice echoing in a sea of red telling him to sleep before he sank into oblivion.