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Chapter Text

“Who’d you used to be?” the girl curled up against his chest asks, one hand grasping one of his and the other fiddling with a loose thread on his pants. She’d have snapped it off ages ago, he thinks, or she would’ve normally, but right now they’re all very high, he and the girl and the man sprawled out on one of the adjacent couches, and he doubts her normally nimble fingers have enough feeling left in them to break the thread without unraveling his pants even more. 

He tilts his head, ever so slightly, the way he’s had to get used to doing in the last seventy-three years. If he swings his head about, if he nods normally, he’ll hit something, hurt someone, hit the girl, or hurt himself. So he restricts himself to the smallest of nods, but whatever new drug they’re all on is really a bit too good at making things go away because every little feeling is amplified by a million right now, and the girl seems to feel the movement because she continues on even though she isn’t looking at him. 

“I’ll tell you who I was,” she offers, and oh, that is tempting indeed, because he knows her, the girl lying with her back against his chest, the one who demands absolute perfection from everyone, including herself, and doesn’t know how to handle anything less than that. The girl who has mastered the art of hurting herself while staying strong, the girl who can build herself up from absolutely nothing again and again. The girl who rolls her eyes when people cry but has gift baskets delivered to his rooms whenever she’s noticed he’s upset. The girl who refuses to accept any opinions except her own but agrees that she’ll admit when she’s wrong, the girl who’s never yet been wrong. The girl who refuses to feel shame for her mile-long coffee order despite how often she’s mocked for it because if she can’t even take her coffee how she likes, what’s the point? The girl who taught him that love didn’t have to be weak and stupid and useless, that it could be dangerous and sharp and violent and powerful, that she could be dangerous and sharp and violent and powerful, that he could have it all if he only gave her what she wanted. 

And in the end, they wanted the same things.

So he knows this girl; he knows her inside and out, but he doesn’t know her name or her birthday or if she has any siblings or how old she is, and once upon a time, these questions would’ve been everything, but they’re unimportant now. She doesn’t know anything about him either, and neither does the man sprawled out on one of the adjacent couches, and he doesn’t know anything about either of them and they don’t know anything about him. They’ve never had any reason to. 

“Only if he plays too,” he tells the girl, nodding to the man, who smiles and dips his head, taking another drag of his usual cigarette as his eyes flit to the girl. 

“Only if you go first, babydoll,” the man says in that smooth, slimy voice of his, and she shrugs.

“A game,” she proposes. “We go in a circle, each tells a secret. Something we’ve never told anyone else down here.”

“Juvenile,” the man she lies on mutters, but he brushes a finger against the top of her head, and he knows from the fit of giggles she dissolves into that the girl knows he’ll play. She knows he’ll always play. 

“Only if you go first, babydoll,” the man sprawled out on one of the adjacent couches repeats, smiling at himself. He probably thinks he’s being funny or something stupid like that.

The girl nods and then pauses for a moment, thinking, before she finally speaks.

“My mother’s name was Monica,” she says. 

Monica Campbell had been twenty-two when she’d decided she’d had enough of college, enough of pretending she’d ever be given the same chances as a man would, enough of struggling to keep a roof over her head. 

When she married Josiah Campbell a year later, it was more out of strategy than love. They already had the same last name, so she wouldn’t have to change hers, which suited her very nicely. He was eight years older than her, which meant he couldn’t be her father, as she’d always found those sorts of age gaps disconcerting, but he was old enough to be firmly settled into a good, well-paying job. His skin was as dark as hers, which meant she wouldn’t have to deal with disapproving in-laws and her own parents’ criticism. He’d been a bachelor up until then, which was slightly concerning, but as she didn’t love him much at all, she decided she didn’t care if he entertained himself elsewhere so long as he didn’t leave her. And he wouldn’t. 

His father had been an alcoholic, he told her when he proposed, a cranky old man on his second wife who hadn’t cared much for her or the boy, and who’d died years earlier to no great sorrow. Josiah had insisted he would do anything to prevent being like the man, and Monica knew if she ever told him he was acting like old Henry Campbell, her husband would snap out of it quickly enough. 

He made all those promises over again when she told him she was pregnant, swearing on God that he’d be a better father than Henry Campbell, and for a moment she’d almost loved him, if only for how he treated her while she carried his son. He spent hours getting ready with her, putting together furniture, painting the nursery, picking out baby clothes, talking all the while about how excited he would be to have a son, to teach the boy how to play all the sports Josiah had to learn on his own, to catch him when he fell riding a bike so he didn’t end up bleeding like Josiah had, to take him out to a bar on his eighteenth birthday instead of not even being around to send a card. He said this baby boy was a gift sent from the Lord to give him a chance to be the father he’d never had, and like a fool, Monica believed him, because even though she didn’t love him, she thought he loved her. 

Monica Campbell had been twenty-three when she gave birth to his daughter, and then things had changed.

“Daddy issues?” he asks the girl, almost smiling at how stupid it all seems now. She sighs, reaching back to clasp her hands behind his neck, arching her back as she stretches, yawning.

“He had them, hundred percent,” she agrees. “I just had a dad with issues.”

He laughs. His head feels heavy, much too heavy for his body, which currently feels like it’s made of pure air, to lift.

“Ever kill him?” he asks the girl, who shakes her head. 

“Still alive, I think,” she complains. “Old as fuck, but alive. I died young.”

“How young?” he wants to ask, “What happened to you?” but he doesn’t ask either of those questions because that’s not how the game works. He doesn’t get to know that yet, not until it’s her turn again, not until she decides to tell him.

“What about his daddy?” he asks instead, and she shakes her head, pulling her hands down to his shoulders and turning in his lap so he’s holding her in something akin to a bridal carry, except both of them are dead and the girl in his lap never had a chance to marry and probably wouldn’t have anyway, and she looks at him and smiles. 

“He’s suffering enough as he is,” she says simply. “Last time I bothered to look into him, he’d lost his soul to a guy he thought was his friend. Who’s going next?”

“I will,” the man sprawled across one of the adjacent couches volunteers, and she turns to watch him, eyes wide with anticipation. 

The man smiles lazily, satisfied, as he takes another drag of his cigarette and exhales, clouding himself in the red smoke that the infernal things produce. He smokes them constantly, and almost no one but him can stand the taste, not unless they’re also hooked on the drug that flows through his veins instead of blood, and the two curled together on the first couch don’t have the time to become addicted to anything the way the man’s whores are, desperately following him no matter how much he hurts them. So the man has been banished to his own couch because the other two are too powerful to risk inhaling too much smoke, because of that and his height. 

When he reappears, no longer shrouded, he seems to have reached some sort of decision, one of his arms taking the cigarette and putting it out on one of the ashtrays he’s never more than five feet away from, before he leans slightly forward, smiling like a cat about to bite down on their prey.

“I’m a bastard,” he says in that silky, tantalizing, infuriating voice of his. “Literally.”

Marcela Vicario Perez was sixteen when she slept with her high school boyfriend for the first time. They weren’t married and didn’t plan to be, and that was scandalous, of course, because it was 1944 and that sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen, but Marcela had always fancied herself a bit of a rebel, and she’d gotten into a fight with her mother a few days earlier, so she’d decided the best way to get back at her would be to lose her virginity.

She didn’t actually end up enjoying it all too much, but Louis seemed to, and afterwards he praised her endlessly, complimenting every inch of her and kissing her all over, making her feel more loved than she had ever before. Hence, she decided it had been a good decision after all, even if the act itself was not as pleasurable as she’d hoped. She’d heard it wasn’t, for women, anyway, so she wasn’t surprised. All in all, it was a nice evening, and when she came home that night, she gave her mother a smile wider than she had in months and could’ve sworn she saw her mother shrink back just from the sight of it, her smile. Like she could see Marcela’s sin on her, even though Louis had been very understanding when she’d instructed him not to leave marks anywhere visible. 

Five months later, and Marcela’s sin was entirely too visible and growing more visible with each passing day. Her mother screamed at her, cursing her foolishness, calling her a she-devil, a witch, a goddamned heathen. Her father said she would never be married now, not if nothing was done about this. They’d have to do away with it, it was decided, and when it was, she screamed and fought and tried to run away, packing her clothes and escaping in the middle of the night, running to Louis’ house, begging him to let her stay. 

He let her inside, let her shower, and fetched her a glass of water, which she drank while attempting to calm herself enough to explain the situation to him. He was shocked, which she did find slightly surprising, but it wasn’t like she’d told him, and he was a boy, after all. He’d asked her if she wanted him to propose, and she asked if he wanted her as his wife, and he told her he did not, but he also did not want a child of his to be killed, and if she wished for a ring, he would not deny her one. 

She thanked him for the offer but told him she wanted a husband who desired her as his wife, and then his parents came home. 

Within an hour, Marcela was back home, locked in her room, and Louis was arguing with both of their fathers while their mothers cried together in the kitchen of Marcela’s house. Within two, it had been agreed upon by everyone except Marcela that she would be sent away to an aunt’s for the remaining four months, and once the situation was resolved, she would either return home alone or live out the rest of her days with no one but her baby and aunt. 

She cried and pleaded with Louis, who told her that he did not want to be a father to the child of a girl who would not marry him, and he would be content knowing the baby was alive and cared for. 

When she realized her mistake, it was already too late. Two days later, she was at her aunt’s, locked in a different room, and by the time her confinement was nearing its end, she had decided that Louis had been the smart one between the two of them. 

The child needed a mother who blamed it for the destruction of her happiness like it needed a bullet to the head. 

“Angsty,” the girl remarks, speaking around the pill she’s sucking on, for some reason. He doesn’t know why she feels the need for more drugs; the ones they all took together a while ago are still working just fine for him. 

He doesn’t know what they’re called, some new product they wanted to test before deciding whether or not to start selling them. He still hasn’t actually decided on that yet. It’s true they’re strong, but they’re not very fun. Who in hell wants something that’ll make you more sentimental? More reflective? Miserable, probably, if you aren’t surrounded by two people you love in an odd way you still can’t figure out how to name, aren’t in a group where the three of you all feed off each other like you’re the drugs and the pills are just nourishment. 

“Did you kill her?” he asks the man sprawled across one of the adjacent couches. “Or him? Any of them?”

“No,” he says casually. He’s holding a new cigarette. Someone should tell him to lay off on them, he’s always a bitch when he gets lung cancer, even if it can never fully kill him, but that’s a problem for another day. Fuck knows they’ve all died, all three of them, over and over again from their vices and indulgences and each other, occasionally. But the man sprawled across one of the adjacent couches usually only dies once every few years when he gets lung cancer again, except for the annoying phase he went through a decade back when he decided he could only get off with cutting or choking. Luckily, most of the time he wanted to be the one slammed back up against death’s door, so his partner escaped that treatment, but it wasn’t exactly possible for him to let one of his contracted whores slit his throat. They ended up going through a lot of employees. 

“Pussy,” the girl says disappointedly. “Why not? Don’t tell me they’re up there.”

“Fuck no,” the man sprawled across one of the adjacent couches says decisively. “I didn’t kill them because over the course of her life without me, poor, sweet Marcela miscarried multiple times, never managing to have another baby and losing her loving marriage she wanted so badly because he wanted children. She’s been looking for me ever since she got here, almost thirty years now. And, well... since she abandoned me, it seems more fitting that I should wait for her to come back, hm?”

“Cold,” the girl giggles, pleased with the answer. “Make her work for it. Your turn now.”

She directs the last bit to the man she’s pressed against, who sighs, considering. He could go with a safe option, following the pattern they’ve set, but there was nothing significant about his parents’ marriage, and he doesn’t remember them very well at all. He was an only child, so there’s nothing about any siblings he can use to divert the conversation to a safer topic.

There’s the obvious thing, of course, which is perfect for this category because no one knows it but him, no one in Hell and no one in the living world, no one but him. He’s never told a soul, and that was the point of it, but his lovers have never been cruel to him, have they? They’ve admitted their own imperfections to him, how the man is hooked on almost every drug in existence and the girl is cursed to get violently ill if she doesn’t starve herself. How the man was barely ever brave enough to sleep with other men before, and now it’s all he does. How the girl doesn’t know how to exist when she’s not in the spotlight, so she built one just to keep herself alive. Countless other things, other failings he doesn’t share, because he has never been able to afford himself the luxury of indulgence. He has never been able to afford proper contentment, even now, because all it takes is one small slip-up, and then everything he’s worked for is gone in a blink of an eye. 

But his normal logic is failing him at the moment, and he just wants to be free, happy, content, honest, so he says, “I was born a girl.”

Ellen Price had gotten married when she was twenty to a man named Harold who’d said all the right things and brought her flowers every week without fail. He impressed her father, flattered her mother, and had a salary large enough to support her and any children they might have. 

She loved him in the way wives did, in that time, back when you loved him because he was good enough to you or wasn’t but didn’t give you a reason not to. And she wanted children in the way every woman did because she would end up having them regardless of whether or not she wanted to, so it was simply just better to want them. Besides, it wasn’t like she had much else to do. Caring for children would give her something to do besides cleaning, sewing, and cooking, even if it was just cleaning after them, sewing their ripped clothes, and cooking their dinners.

When she was twenty-two, she baked her husband a very good dinner, better than usual, a good piece of meat with all the trimmings, and she told him he was going to be a father. He was happy, of course, and they spent the rest of the night sitting together by the fire, he reading the newspaper and she crocheting a baby blanket, occasionally breaking the silence with a remark or comment about what life was going to be like once they were finally parents. He wanted a boy who’d play baseball; she wanted a girl to dress up, but both agreed they’d be happy either way so long as the baby was strong and healthy. They proceeded about the rest of her pregnancy as people did, telling their parents and painting a nursery and getting everything ready for a child. 

After several months, Ellen gave birth to a healthy, strong baby. A girl. 

They named her Dorothea Elizabeth Price, after both of their grandmothers, and they were both perfectly satisfied. It was good for the oldest child to be a girl anyway, Harold conceded. She’d be more useful when Ellen was busy with her younger brothers and sisters, instead of having an older boy around getting into trouble.

They planned for a big family, but that never did end up happening, and gradually over the years, Ellen and Harold Price began to stop imagining Dorothea surrounded by other children. They began to stop thinking about whether or not they’d eventually need to move to a house with more bedrooms. They began to stop imagining Dorothea as a good, helpful older sister, or a sister at all. 

Eventually, all their hopes for the future, all their dreams, rested on their only child, their precious, beloved daughter. 

It would’ve all been ruined anyway, eventually, but decades later their only child would wonder if things would’ve been just a little bit better if all those brothers and sisters Ellen and Harold Price had dreamed of ended up as real people. 

Chapter Text

“You can’t be serious,” Valentino says finally, breaking the silence that had accumulated after Vox had finished talking. “No. If that was your attempt at humor, Voxy, try again with someone who hasn’t been fucking you for decades, and men in general for even longer. I think I would know a man when I see one.”

“Tha— nk —s,” Vox says, trying to be casual, but the way his voice glitches ruins it. “That wa— s the intended re— sult .” 

“Right, you’re mechanical,” Velvette says, and Vox thinks if she also had gears and vents they’d be in full use. His own vents, which are set along his sides almost like a shark’s gills, are working overtime, puffing hot air out. It’s his equivalent of breathing quickly, and if he was more human-like he’d probably look like he was a second away from a panic attack, but seeing as he doesn’t breathe through his mouth he’s able to keep his composure. Everything about him is designed for him to have complete control over how he presents himself, for him to be as fake as he likes and fake even when he doesn’t want to be. 

But it’s useful when you’re the CEO of an extremely successful company you built from the ground up. 

Velvette is still talking. “You can redesign yourself, duh, you’ve removed your head before, and as long as you’re connected to electricity for an escape route you can survive any damage to your body, right? So even if you spawned with your original biology, which, doubtful, literally in hell. And you’ve been here for, what, seventy years? More? Plus if you had any sort of surgery when you were alive, that might carry over, making less work for you, so it’s completely plausible that even Val wouldn’t have noticed.”

“No, it is not,” Valentino insists. “I work with kings and queens all day long, baby. I can tell when something’s fake.”

“Everything about him is fake,” Velvette points out. One of her hands stretches out, and she gives the area where a breast would be an experimental poke. “He has a television for a head.”

Valentino hesitates, apparently unable to argue with this logic. He’s very good at being difficult, but Vox’s head is literally a television. “So…you were a girl.”

“Yes,” Vox agrees. 

“But now, you’re…”

“A man.”

“How does that work?”

“How do you make gay porn for decades and never hear about trans people?” Velvette asks bluntly. “That’s it, right?”

“Don’t know that term,” Vox says. “But you’re usually right, so…yes?”

“It’s when you identify as a different gender than the one you were assigned at birth,” Velvette supplies automatically. “Like, for example, if you were born with a stupid grandma name like Dorothea , but now you’re an old dead dude with a television for a head.”

“Oh,” Vox says. He checks Urban Dictionary. Huh. It offers him an Am I Trans? quiz. He clicks on it, beginning to work his way through the questions while still focusing on Velvette. 

“You’re not one of those people who has meltdowns over someone saying their deadname, right?”

“My what? You mean the name I was born with?”

She nods. 

“Don’t really care,” he tells her. “Haven’t used it since I was seventeen, I’d already stopped associating it with myself by the time I died. It’s just a name.”

It’s a lie, at least it is partially, but he knows better than to admit to any weakness, even one so small as his minor discomfort with a certain name.

The results from the quiz finally load. Congrats! There is a high chance you are transgender. That solves that, then. 

“Good, ‘cause I can’t feel my legs, so if you start freaking out we’re both fucked.”

“I don’t think I’m going to sell this,” Valentino decides, apparently satisfied enough with the answers he’s received to no longer give a fuck. “Voxy, darling, how do you feel? You’re my control.”

“‘Cause Vel and you take enough shit daily that this is barely anything to you?”

“Exactly.”

“I can’t think right and I doubt I’m going to be able to teleport until this wears off, so no one’s going to buy this shit. Good if we need someone to sign something, though.”

Valentino sighs dramatically, taking a cocktail from a tray his robotic servant offers. It’s made to look like some famous imp, apparently, which Vox finds stupid but apparently, they’re the hottest new thing and Val just had to have one. Bought with Vox’s card, of course, because Valentino decided years ago that Vox was essentially his sugar daddy, and using his own money for anything was out of the question. Velvette would probably do the same, but she never has the chance to steal his credit card because Valentino always has it, so she uses his debit card instead. 

Vox is a bit insulted Valentino wasn’t happy with one of his VBots, but he doesn’t care enough to start a fight over it. 

“Why didn’t I know this already?” Velvette demands, apparently still fixated on this, which makes sense for her even if it is slightly annoying. She likes knowing things, and him apparently being transgender—according to the quiz, at least—isn’t technically included in the unspoken agreement not to talk about their lives, considering it’s still true now and arguably still relevant. 

Vox still prefers Valentino’s approach, which is mostly indifference to anything that doesn’t involve sex or drugs, but he tolerates the questions because it’s Velvette. 

“No one knew,” he reminds her. “That was the point. If they did, I’d have to go back to being a girl.”

“We know now,” Valentino reminds him. 

“And your businesses depend on my tech. Without me, you’re both fucked.”

“Not necessarily,” Val says mildly. “Your existing inventions would be fine, and your engineers are mostly competent on their own. Development would slow down, we’d lose the sales boost your hypnosis gets us, and we wouldn’t be able to spy on anyone. But we wouldn’t be any more fucked than I usually get, amorcito.”

“None of my employees know my password,” Vox informs him. There are multiple other reasons Val and Vel can’t afford to have him die, such as the fact that his existence powers basically every VoxTek device in existence, but they aren’t completely aware of that. 

“Never mind,” Valentino sighs. “But now that you mention fucking…”

“No,” Velvette snaps. “I’m not in the mood to see either of your dicks, and I don’t want to move.”

“I can’t feel anything lower than my stomach,” Vox says. “It’s not happening anyway”.

“Ah, well,” Val sighs. “Shall we continue the game, then?”

“Let’s,” Velvette says eagerly. “Same order?”

“Less complicated,” Vox agrees. “You’re next, doll.”

“Make it spicy ,” Valentino chimes in. 

“Alright,” she says with a grin. “When I was thirteen, I killed a girl for wearing the same dress as me to our eighth-grade formal.”

“What’s her name?”

“Trish, I think. Or maybe Teresa. Something with a t , definitely.”

“You’re sure?”

“Girl, what did I just say? I don’t fucking know. No one’s even seen her before, she doesn’t live here, and I checked with Candace, she doesn’t go to Blake’s church, so god knows where they met.”

“Maybe she’s a hooker, and he hired her because he couldn’t get a date!”

“Monique,” Ginny snapped, turning back to give the girl a cold look. “I’m not fucking around.”

“Anyway,” Krista pressed on, clearly trying to divert Ginny’s attention away from bullying Monique. “Someone needs to go talk to her.”

“I can do it!” Monique offered immediately, earning herself an eye roll and a wince from Ginny and Krista, respectively. Ginny shook her head firmly, not even bothering to think about it. Monique was constantly on the outs with their little group, mostly because she was stupid about things like this, and for some reason, she seemed to think that sucking up to Ginny was the way to earn herself a more solid place. Just another example of her cluelessness, in Ginny’s opinion, but she let Monique stick around because if Monique didn’t hang out with Ginny and her friends, she would end up bullied within an inch of her life, and Ginny had principles about that sort of thing, thank you very much. 

The principles in question mostly just consisted of not letting the only other black girl in school get her face shoved into the pavement unless Ginny was the one doing the shoving, but whatever. She didn’t do that much anyway, because Krista thought Monique’s stupidity was funny and Krista was Ginny’s best friend, so if she wanted to keep Monique away from injury, Ginny wouldn’t be the one to hurt her. 

It was slightly annoying how quickly Krista had latched onto Monique after Ginny started bringing her around, but a necessary evil all the same. If Monique ended up on the floor, there was precious little keeping Ginny from falling after her. 

“I sent Lori to talk to Blake, like, ten minutes ago, anyway,” Ginny dismissed. “I’m not doing anything until she comes back. Or, wait, Claud!”

Claudia turned away from Adrienne, who’d been examining her nails, and gave Ginny an expectant look. Waiting for her command. 

It still gave Ginny a bit of a rush, sometimes. Realizing just how much control she really had over these girls, even if they didn’t know it. All of them, Krista, Lori, Claudia, Adrienne, Deanna, Melanie, Lindsey…even Monique, though her loyalty wasn’t particularly…wanted. 

But the rest of them? The power rush that being unofficially in charge of a friend group of eighth-grade girls gave her would’ve been more than a little embarrassing if anyone else knew about it. 

Not more embarrassing than showing up to the eighth-grade formal wearing the same dress as some random girl no one knew who’d gotten in as the date of some loser geek who no sane girl would even think of going near, though.

It was in a different color, and it was a little longer, and the neckline was different, but still . That wasn’t the point . It was humiliating , and Virginia Audrey Campbell did not get humiliated. 

“Go check out the drinks sitch, ‘kay? Bring back a few cups of whatever looks like it’d stain like a bitch.”

Claudia smiled mischievously. “Got it, babe. C’mon, Adri, I think I’m gonna need extra hands.”

The two of them disappeared into the crowd, and Ginny turned back to Krista, ignoring Monique’s pouting. “I could’ve done that…” the girl mumbled. 

“But Claud’s doing it,” Ginny said flatly. “Done pouting? Fab. Kris, can you see Lori?”

Krista glanced behind Ginny, craning her neck. She was tall, for a girl, and she was wearing cute red heels that matched her dress, so she had the height boost. 

Ginny was wearing heels too, of course, but she was barely five feet tall without them, so all the shoes did (aside from making her look like a bad bitch) was give her neck a break from looking up. 

“She’s heading back,” Krista reported, and a few seconds later, Lori was in front of them, shoving some random seventh grader out of the way. Not even Krista batted an eye at that. The only seventh graders at the eighth grade formal were either popular enough to be an eighth grader’s date or working the event for volunteer hours, and if Ginny didn’t know their name they were definitely just some stuck-up teacher’s pet. Anyone trying for volunteer hours in seventh grade deserved the bullying, in her opinion. 

“Family friend,” Lori said breathlessly, looking excited. “Their parents are friends, and his made him take her because her family was in town visiting. Her name’s Joanna McCann.”

“Fuck’s sake, Kris,” Ginny muttered. 

“How many times do I need to explain what I don’t know means?” Krista shot back. “I thought I heard a t name!”

“Whatever,” Lori interrupted. “Anyway, she’s not really a threat. Blake says she’s annoying as fuck, he didn’t want her to come at all. He said he’d tell her to apologize to you, but that he didn’t get why it was such a big deal.”

“ Boys ,” Krista said, with the proper amount of condescension in her tone. 

“I’m going to go talk to her,” Ginny decided. “Kristy, babe, come find me once Claud and Adri are back. I’ll need a drink. Don’t approach right away, though, wait for a signal.”

“What about me?” Monique pressed. “I can help!”

Ginny glowered at her. Monique only smiled wider. 

“Stay with me,” Krista interjected. “It’ll be weird if anyone else goes with Gin.”

“Fine,” Monique grumbled, clearly put out, but Ginny ignored her as usual, blowing Krista a kiss before she turned and marched off into the crowd, in search of her newest prey. 

The dance was held in the main hallway of their school, with snacks set up in the cafeteria and the gym decorated with space for dancing and music playing, even if no one was actually dancing, just standing around and talking. Ginny and her friends usually hung out by the doors to the girls’ locker room during events, which was the prime location for standing around and talking because they could go into the bathroom whenever they needed to shit-talk boys or avoid teachers. Most of the students were milling about the gym, with friends, and aside from the occasional messenger sent to get snacks, no one aside from complete losers hung out in the cafeteria. 

Naturally, that was where she found Joanna McCann. 

“Hi!” Ginny chirped, practically throwing herself onto the bench next to Joanna with a practiced amount of drama, trying to make herself seem breathless and giggly. Just another girl having fun at a school dance, not a girl at the most important dance of her life so far, not a girl whose night had been ruined by the girl next to her. Definitely not. Just Ginny Campbell, having a good time, talking to the newcomer, all normal stuff. “Oh my god, you look gorgeous , hi, what’s your name? You’re new!”

The girl’s face flushed bright red as she stared at Ginny, whose smile only grew wider. “I—“ she stuttered. “H-hi, hey, yeah, I don’t live here, just, just visiting!”

“So cute,” Ginny said, clicking her tongue. “Oh, I didn’t introduce myself, did I? Ugh, sorry, I’m just so excited! Not a lot of new faces around here, you know how it is!“

“Y-yeah,” the girl managed to stay, still somehow more flustered than Ginny had ever seen anyone get around her before, which was actually a bit cute. In the same way that those dogs begging like pathetic idiots were cute, but whatever. She’d have probably made a good addition to Ginny’s friends if she hadn’t already fucked up beyond forgiveness. “I-I’m Jo. Joanna, but everyone calls me Jo, or, well, they don’t, but—“

“Jo!” Ginny squealed, clapping her hands together. “Love it. My name’s Virginia, but my friends call me Ginny.”

“Oh,” Joanna mumbled, clearly confused about what she should be calling Ginny, which was the entire point. “Should I—“

“So where’re you from, why’re you here,” Ginny bulldozed on. “Give me the details .”

“I, uh, Texas,” Joanna managed to say. “My parents have friends up here, they have a son who goes here, and the parents made him take me so they could hang out together. I’m pretty sure they’re just swingers, but whatever, I didn’t have anythin’ to do anyway.”

“Oo, juicy,” Ginny commented. “How’ve you been liking Maryland?”

“It’s okay,” Joanna said quickly. “I mean, kinda cold, but it’s not so different.”

Ginny winked at her, unfolding the napkin she’d grabbed from the snack tables and pulling out a cookie, snapping it in half, and offering Joanna a piece. “Want half?”

“Oh, no thanks,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “T-thanks, though.”

“I insist,” Ginny told her, not dropping her grin. “Too much sugar for me, y’know, it’ll go straight to my waist. Help me out!”

“I—I can’t, I can’t have peanuts and three different types of cookies had them, and they were touchin’, I’m sorry,” Joanna explained hurriedly. 

“Oh, you silly,” Ginny said dismissively, taking a bite out of the cookie, which she knew for a fact had peanuts in it, before wadding the rest up in the napkin and tossing it over her shoulder into a trash can. “You should’ve just said! Now come on, it’s so boring in here. Let’s have fun!”

“Oh,” Joanna said, then lit up, jumping to her feet. “Okay!”

Ginny laughed, holding up her hands for Joanna to pull her to her feet. The girl hesitated for a second, which Ginny made a mental note of, before grabbing Ginny’s hands. 

The two of them ran back to the gym, still hand-in-hand, Ginny practically dragging Joanna along with her, the other girl making absolutely no effort to shake her off. Just the way she liked it. 

“Dance with me, babe,” Ginny said, framing it like a suggestion, and that’s what they did. 

“This music is terrible,” Joanna gasped out, nearly half an hour later, as they finally collapsed against the wall of the gym. “Like, fuck, Ginny, how can you like this.”

“Oh, no one does,” Ginny said dismissively, sliding down to the floor. A second later, Joanna did the same, and they sat together, both cross-legged with their knees brushing together as they watched the crowd in front of them. “That’s why it’s so fun!”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Right, isn’t it great?”

“Do you really love everything?” Joanna asked. Her voice had turned oddly soft. Ginny didn’t look at her, gaze focused on the students, searching for Krista. 

“Of course not,” Ginny said, slightly stiffly. Joanna sighed, and Ginny could hear the rustling of her dress ( that stupid, stupid dress ) as she moved. Moved closer, if Ginny had to guess, which she did, because she wasn’t looking at Joanna. She was looking for Krista. 

“Blake told me about you before we came,” Joanna said. “He said you were mean and there were lots of girls who thought they were your friends but you just kept them around to do your bidding, and that I should stay away from you.”

“That’s a bit rude of him,” Ginny said, mostly joking but a little offended. Where was Krista? “They are my friends.”

“Where are they, then?” Joanna pressed. “If you’re so popular, why are you here?”

“Maybe they’re all off somewhere else,” Ginny suggested. “Maybe I was bored.” Maybe she was going to cut all of Krista’s hair off in the middle of the night if she didn’t show up soon. 

“I don’t think you’re mean,” Joanna said quietly, and something about her voice made Ginny stop thinking about Krista. 

She looked back. Joanna was watching her, chin propped up on her hand, face blue from the colored lights. She looked conflicted, almost. 

“That’s nice of you,” Ginny said. 

“Why did you talk to me?” Joanna pressed. 

“I talk to everyone,” Ginny said. “I just like people.”

“Everyone says that.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

“You seem smarter than this.”

Ginny tried not to visibly react. She wasn’t sure if it had worked or not. Joanna’s expression didn’t change. “What’s that mean?”

She didn’t receive a response, just a shrug, and then Joanna reached out her free hand to the edge of Ginny’s forehead. On a white girl, she would’ve been tucking a loose strand of hair back, maybe, but Ginny had used enough hairspray that she wouldn’t have been surprised if her edges never unstuck from her forehead ever again, so all Joanna’s fingers did was brush against Ginny’s skin, before she quickly yanked her hand back. Ginny didn’t bother reacting. 

“Sorry,” Joanna muttered. 

“It’s fine,” Ginny told her. “Don’t be shy.”

“I think you’d rather I be shy,” Joanna said, sounding oddly honest. 

“I think you’re more indecisive than you’d like to think,” Ginny countered. 

“What, you think I should be more decisive?” Joanna teased. 

“Maybe,” Ginny sighed. “I do it all the time. It’s fun.”

“Maybe I’ll try it,” Joanna said shyly. 

“Maybe you should, Jo,” Ginny said, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards, and then Joanna McCann kissed her.

Ginny wasn’t completely aware of what happened immediately after that. All she knew was that Joanna was kissing her and she wasn’t moving, she wasn’t shoving Joanna away or pulling back or grabbing the hand that was cupping her jaw and breaking it, she was just sitting there and letting Joanna McCann kiss her, in the gym, in front of everyone. If anyone, anyone, even one single person had thought to look over to the two girls sitting together against the wall of the gym, they’d have seen and Ginny would’ve been ruined.

She knew that.

She didn’t move.

And then, after either about ten seconds or ten years, Joanna made a strangled sort of gasp and lurched backward. 

Ginny didn’t say anything. She just sat there watching as Joanna seemingly choked on air, face turning red, and then redder, and then vaguely purplish, and then Ginny jumped to her feet, looking around wildly as she twirled one of her dangling earrings, and then, of course, like the perfect best friend that she was, Krista appeared at her side. 

“What the fuck happened to her?” Krista demanded, looking almost genuinely concerned. 

“Peanuts,” Ginny said quietly. “She’s deathly allergic.”

“Oh, fuck,” Krista said, and hours later, when the ambulance had came and left and Ginny had sobbed in front of a police officer and insisted that neither of them had known the cookie Joanna had eaten contained peanuts, when the dance had been cut short and students had been sent home, when Joanna had been pronounced dead by the first responders, when Dorothy and Scott McCann had shown up at the school sobbing and screaming for their child, when Blake had given Ginny a stare of such pure and utter loathing before he’d allowed himself to be dragged away by his parents, when Krista and Ginny had gone back to Krista’s house for the sleepover they’d agreed on weeks earlier, she said, “I saw you kiss her.”

“She kissed me,” Ginny said. 

“And you didn’t push her away,” Krista pressed on. “You just sat there until she started choking, which, fuck, how the fuck did that happen? And what, are you a lesbian now or some shit?”

“As if,” Ginny said derisively. “It was her own fault. I ate one of the cookies in front of her, like, thirty minutes earlier.”

“Oh,” Krista said, like she understood, which was impossible because Ginny didn’t even understand. “So—the dress thing?”

“God, Kristy,” Ginny sighed, falling back into her best friend’s bed. “Stop fucking doubting me.”

“Just checking,” Krista said mildly, agreeable as always. “So it was her fault, then?”

“Duh,” Ginny whispered, closing her eyes. “ Obviously .”

“So…” Valentino said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Was it really?”

Velvette groaned. “Obviously,” she echoed. “I ate the damn thing right in front of her.”

“But did you mean to kill her?” Vox pressed, much more intrigued than he’d expected to be. 

“Oh, totally,” Velvette confirmed. “OG plan was to dump bleach in her drink, but I couldn’t have gotten into the janitor’s closet without someone noticing, so the peanut allergy really was a hellsend.”

“Were you trying to get her to kiss you?” Vox badgered, wincing as she stabs his chest with a fingernail. 

“No, duh,” she says, exasperated. “It was, like, 1995. Kissing girls was gross unless it was for a guy or some shit like that.”

“Aren’t you bi?”

“Ugh, you’re not getting the point.”

“I feel like you’re not paying attention to the real lesson learned here, Voxy,” Valentino interrupts. “Such as our darling little dollface here was named Virginia.”

Velvette groaned, rolling her eyes. 

“Not very fitting,” Vox agrees. “Your mother really was delusional, huh?”

“Your parents named you Dorothea, you cannot be talking,” Velvette reminds him. 

“Low blow,” Vox mutters. “I stopped using that when I was seventeen.“

“What was it then?” Valentino asks eagerly. “Let me guess, C—“

“Fuck no,” Vox says over him, cutting him off. “Absolutely not. No. No guessing, none of that. I’ll tell you, if you tell us your name first.”

“You’re the only one who hasn’t,” Velvette agrees quickly. Valentino sighs dramatically. 

“Vox hasn’t either,” he remarks, tossing his empty glass somewhere behind him. Vox can hear it break, and see it, faintly, through the cameras that he’s starting to regain control of as the drug’s effects wear away. “It doesn’t count if it wasn’t your real name. Unless it was, papito?”

“No!” Vox snaps immediately, rising to the bait as always, before Velvette taps the edge of his screen and he remembers what he’s trying to do. “I mean, uh, it’s your turn first.”

“Fine, fine,” Valentino sighs, producing another already-somehow-lit cigarette from seemingly nowhere. He insists he doesn’t just use his powers to create them out of nowhere, but Vox always calls bullshit. “Let’s see, then. My name was Oscar. And the girls called me Ozzie.”

“What do you think?”

“Of the movie? It’s interesting enough.”

“But what do you think of the romance?”

“Well, it’s a shame for Merle, but I must say, I admire Gillian just a pinch.”

“Really? I think she’s rather horrible.”

“I find an odd beauty in people doing terrible things for love, I suppose.”

“But what if she’s discovered? It will all be for nothing, and poor Merle will still have suffered.”

“Maybe he’ll forgive her.”

“Would you?”

“Perhaps,” Oscar said noncommittally, glancing back to meet her eyes. “If she was you.”

“And if I were Merle?” Julie prompted expectantly. 

“Then I wouldn’t have been enchanted in the first place,” Oscar told her immediately. “Nothing could’ve torn me anyway.”

Julie giggled, blushing prettily, and leaned closer, obviously pleased with his answer. “Such a gentleman, Ozzie,” she remarked happily. “But what if you were anyone? She is a witch.”

“Then I’d come back to you the moment the spell was broken, and spend the rest of my life trying to win back your favor,” Oscar decided, and, taking a risk, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She giggled again and leaned back against his arm, so it must’ve been all right. 

“How do you know the spell is ever broken?” Julie pointed out.

“Wouldn’t be much of a movie if it wasn’t, would it?” Oscar said, leaning his own head back so that their noses just barely brushed against each other.

“Oh, you,” Julie squealed, raising her hand to brush a strand of hair back, but it lingered, her fingers tracing his draw. “You’re awfully clever when you want to be, aren’t you, Oz?”

“I’m flattered that you think so,” Oscar said and kissed her. She kissed him back, which was lucky for him because he’d told Scott and Walter she would earlier and it would’ve been humiliating if he’d had to tell them he’d been rejected after everything. 

She was a good enough kisser, he considered, and she hadn’t worn too much lipstick, which was always nice. He could tell she’d done this before, which some boys didn’t like, but in Oscar’s opinion, it was always more fun when he didn’t need to stop and explain everything. One of her hands was still on his jaw, and the other was on the floor between them, propping her up. His own hands were on her back, high up enough to be considered acceptable, and cupping her cheek. 

They broke apart after about a minute, and she looked at her, cheeks flushed red, corners of her mouth turning up, before she burst into another fit of giggles, collapsing against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, appreciating their closeness, and she looked up, eyes shining, and wiped something off his lips. 

“Sorry,” she giggled. “You’re a bit pink.”

“A necessary sacrifice,” Oscar said mildly. It was hardly worth dwelling on, in his opinion. One of his past girlfriends had begged to do his face up once, and he’d agreed once he’d made certain neither of her parents nor anyone else, would be interrupting. He’d ended up liking how it looked quite a bit, but it wouldn’t do to make that public knowledge. If word got out that he’d let a girl put lipstick on him, he’d be branded as a fairy, and it’d be impossible to get another girl to kiss him if they thought he was like that .

Privately, Oscar figured he was at the very least one-third a fairy, but he liked kissing girls enough that he was fine ignoring that forever. It wasn’t like only being somewhat of a fairy was a thing, anyway, and he didn’t feel like causing more trouble, so he made sure that he broke up with that girlfriend nicely enough so that she wouldn’t feel the need to loosen her lips.

She probably wouldn’t have anyway, he later realized, because wanting to do your boyfriend’s face was suspicious in its own right, so he stopped worrying about it. 

“There, you’re fixed,” she pronounced, satisfied, before turning and situating herself in his lap, back against his chest so that she could finish watching the movie.

Oscar’s smile dropped, and he leaned back, reaching for one of the blankets that were folded in the corner of the pickup truck’s bed and pulling it over them. He wasn’t particularly interested in the movie anymore, he’d already seen it twice and thought it stupid, but he was feeling a bit insulted by her so-called fixing of him, so he didn’t fight it. 

By the time the movie was over, he’d mostly gotten over it, but he’d decided he probably wasn’t going to ask Julie out again, so he might as well make the most of tonight. When she twisted around to look at him, he kissed her immediately, and she didn’t fight it, wiggling around until she’d managed to get her legs in the right position to wrap them around his waist, and then leaning into it. 

“It really is romantic, isn’t it?” Julie whispered after a few minutes, when they were no longer kissing but their faces remained pressed together. “That she loves him in the end?”

“Not for Merle,” Oscar almost said, but he thought better of it and instead said, “I think it is.”

“Do you think they’re married?” Julie asked. “After that, do you think they end up married?”

“So long as he doesn’t meet another witch, I’d guess so,” Oscar said.

Julie laughed, all concern for the heartbroken Merle apparently discarded when she refused to take back her unfaithful ex-fiancé. Some people, Oscar thought with no small amount of disdain, really lost all semblance of their intelligence when it came to love. 

He’d decided a long time ago that he would never bother with it. He had a certain fondness for small children and their brutal honesty, so he might take a wife simply for that purpose, but he wouldn’t bother with loving her and he probably wouldn’t stay loyal to her. 

Merle, he thought, was the smartest of her fellow characters. Gillian had given up her magic for love, and Shep had been an idiot through and through, but Merle had learned her lesson and kept her pride. 

“When do you have to go?” Julie asked him. Oscar shrugged. 

“Whenever the boys come back,” he said. “You?”

“My parents want me back by eight-forty,” she said, reaching for his wrist to study his watch. “Oh, I really should run. My brother will be here soon.”

“Shame,” Oscar sighed, only half-meaning it. “We’ll say goodnight, then.”

She caught on quickly, thankfully, and kissed him again, but he only had a few seconds to enjoy it before they were interrupted by the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat.

“Busy, Scott,” Oscar said, pulling away from Julie. “Do you mind?”

“Sorry,” Scott said, but he was smirking at the two of them, so he probably didn’t mean it. “We lost Walter again. Was wonderin’ if you’d seen him ‘round.”

“No,” Oscar said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. He helped Julie off his lap, then jumped out of the truck, turning back to offer her a hand as she climbed down. “Sorry about this, doll.”

“Goodnight, Ozzie,” she said sweetly, kissing his cheek before turning and hurrying over. Scott snickered, and Oscar fixed him with a glare.

“She left a mark,” he teased. “You’ve got yourself a romantic there, Ozzie .”

“Don’t you start,” Oscar warned, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand. “Is it off?”

“Enough,” Scott decided. “You’re tan enough it isn’t as obvious.”

“Not that tan,” Oscar whispered, but Scott was practiced enough at guessing what people said just by looking at them that he understood anyway. 

“If you were any tanner you’d be black,” he said in his matter-of-fact way that Oscar hated more than anything. “It’s a wonder they let you into school.”

“I’m not black, prick,” Oscar snapped. Scott shrugged.

“You don’t know your dad,” he pointed out.

“My aunt did. He wasn’t black.”

Scott shrugged again, seemingly bored of the argument. It was a common one, unfortunately for Oscar, who might not have been black but knew for a fact he wasn’t white, but it never seemed to go anywhere. 

“When’s the last time you saw Walter?” Oscar asked, changing the topic. 

“Ten minutes ago, maybe,” Scott guessed. Oscar stared at him for a few seconds, then grabbed his shoulders. 

“Are you telling me,” he said slowly. “That you sent Julie away because you lost sight of Walter for ten minutes? ”

“Well, he wasn’t anywhere nearby,” Scott muttered, scratching his neck. “And neither of us noticed him leave.”

“That’s because you’re half-deaf and Raymond is an idiot,” Oscar said bluntly. “A train could’ve passed behind you and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

“I’m not that deaf,” Scott argued. 

“Yes, you are,” Oscar said quietly, covering his mouth with a hand. Scott gave him a blank look, and he raised his voice, letting his arm drop to his side. “Yes, you are!”

“Fine,” Scott groaned, as though there was any point in arguing when he had spent the whole conversation staring at Oscar’s mouth every time he spoke. “Just help us find him, would you?”

Oscar scanned the crowd of cars, which was slowly thinning now that the movie had ended. He tapped Scott’s shoulder and pointed right in front of them at Walter, who was jogging up to them. 

“Found him,” Oscar said, turning his face just enough for Scott to see, which unfortunately only made it easier to get punched in the arm. 

“Thanks a lot,” Scott groaned. “Where’d you go, Walt?”

Walter pointed behind him with his thumb, which Oscar guessed was the closest thing to an explanation he was going to give. Compared to Raymond, Walter was relatively bright, but he didn’t feel like he should be obligated to explain anything to anyone, no matter what it was. 

Speaking of…

“Now where’s Raymond?” Oscar asked. “He has the keys.”

“Here,” Raymond called, appearing behind them. “Ready to go? Found Walter?”

“I’m here,” Walter reported. “I call shotgun. Where’d you throw the tarp, Oscar?”

“Passenger seat.”

Tickets to a drive-in theater were relatively cheap, but they were always cheaper if they went in Raymond’s trunk and hid two boys in the back. Oscar thought it was stupid, but he didn’t have the pocket money to argue, so he and Scott obligingly laid down and covered themselves with the tarp while Raymond drove them home, Walter enjoying his actual seat.

Once they were far enough away that any attendants wouldn’t notice, Oscar pushed the tarp away, glancing over to Scott, who was watching the sky. 

“Hey,” he said, flicking his friend’s shoulder. “What’d you think of that movie?”

“Stupid,” Scott said, turning to face him. “Can’t think of why a guy’d forgive a girl for putting a spell on him just because she loves him.”

“Love’s stupid,” Oscar agreed. Scott made a face at him. 

“People are stupid,” he said. 

“Often enough,” Oscar conceded. “Merle was smart enough, at least in the end.”

“Yeah,” Scott said. “Still a stupid movie.”

“It’s showing for another day,” Oscar recalled. “Want to go again tomorrow?”

Scott laughed. “You want the same rules?”

The rules were that if Oscar could manage to get a girl to agree to go with him and kiss him within that day, he didn’t have to pay because that was impressive enough he shouldn’t have to. “Whaddya think?”

“I think you’re either a genius or a moron,” Scott said frankly.

“Yeah, well,” Oscar said. “Gotta keep ‘em guessing.”

“Oscar,” Vox repeats. “You. Were named Oscar .”

“You were named Dorothea and she was Virginia,” Valentino says, looking affronted. “Mine’s better than either of those.”

“I ditched mine the first chance I had,” Vox reminds him. “You kept yours and let yourself be called Ozzie. Ozzie .”

“Wait,” Velvette says, sitting up, despite claiming she was incapable of moving not ten minutes earlier. Neither Vox nor Valentino are surprised. “Ozzie, like Asmodeus Ozzie?”

“No, like Oscar, keep up,” Valentino says, but he’s defensive and Vox is starting to catch onto what Velvette had. 

“Is Asmodeus really your idol,” she says slowly, “or did you accidentally respond to his name once and had to explain it away?”

Valentino is silent for a long moment, and then he sighs. “If you tell anyone—“ he begins to threaten, but Vox cuts him off. 

“We don’t share company secrets. Unless either of you tell mine, then you can go fuck yourself and I’m telling everyone, but I think you would’ve assumed that anyway.”

“Naturally,” Valentino agrees, mollified. “Besides, you wouldn’t be happy if you lost the money from my whores.”

Vox doesn’t argue with him. “Fifteen-year-old Val doesn’t seem like he changed much.”

Valentino grins, displaying his pointed teeth. “Except for physically.”

“Can’t relate,” Velvette says smugly, crawling off Vox and onto the unoccupied area of the couch. It’s true that’s she the most human-like out of the three of them, but she’s still eerily doll-like in a way that can’t be explained away. She might still have her old features, unlike Val and Vox, who have been completely transformed, but there’s no hiding her demonic nature. Even if she tries. 

“Don’t your limbs detach?” Valentino asks, thinking along the same lines as Vox. Velvette shoots him a venomous glare, but between the cloud of red smoke that’s perpetually surrounding him and his terrible vision, there’s essentially no chance he actually sees it. 

“Shut the fuck up,” she snaps. 

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s interesting,” Val says, attempting to soothe her and doing a poor job of it. “I’ve been looking for a slut with that particular quality for a while, but you seem to be rather unique. It’s a pity.”

“It’s creepy,” she retorts. “ You’re just creepier. And, what, do you want to turn me into a fleshlight?”

“Well…” Val hesitates. “Not exactly . I was thinking more along the lines of—“

“Hard pass.”

He shrugs. “Fussy, fussy. But let’s not get distracted here, I believe it was your turn, amorcito.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Vox sighs. 

“You know what I want,” Valentino purrs. “Tell me, Voxy. If Dorothea wasn’t your name, what was?”

“First of all, I know I said I don’t care, but stop saying that name every few seconds,” Vox tells him irritably. “You’re not even saying Vel’s anymore, you’re just trying to piss me off.”

“Guilty,” Val sniffs. 

“Knock it off,” Vox warns him. “The next time I have to tell you I’m just taking the ad blockers off your phone.”

Valentino gasps, clutching it to his chest protectively. “You wouldn’t .”

“Just stop needling him,” Velvette interjects. “Honestly, you’re so whiny sometimes.”

“Fine,” Valentino says, still sounding annoyed, but Vox doesn’t care. “Tell us your name, then.”

“Victor.” 

“Nixon.”

“Victor Nixon, huh?” 

“It sounds sharp.”

“If you say so, Victor .”

“Stop it. You’re making it weird.”

“It was weird already.”

“You’re always saying the world’s unfair. I don’t have a choice.”

“You’re not doing this for a job, Victor, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You are,” Alma said simply. She stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed as she watched him. “Be honest with me, would you?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Victor argued halfheartedly. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, examining how the shirt sat on his chest. “Does this look strange?”

“Is that your father’s?” Alma asked skeptically. 

“Yes.”

“It isn’t your color in the slightest. And the arms are too long.”

“I don’t have a brother,” Victor reminded her. “Where else am I to get clothes for now? I’ll buy my own once I’ve left, I just need to get my chest to look right.”

“Oh, then it’s fine,” she assured him. “But I worry you’ll hurt yourself like that.”

“That’s not important,” Victor said, even though it was a fair point. He’d figure that part out later. “What time is it?”

Alma glanced down the hall. “Half-past three. Your mother should be home soon, you’d better change.”

Victor bit his lip, hesitating, but there was no point in it. Alma was right. If his mother found him like this, in his father’s shirt and a pair of his old pants, it would be catastrophic. 

“I’ll fetch your other clothes,” Alma said suddenly, picking up on his souring mood as quickly as she always did, and as soon as she was gone he sagged against the sink, staring at his own reflection with disgust, yet unable to pull his eyes away. 

He was tall, for a girl, his hair was wretchedly straight, and he had a relatively slim figure that was mostly free of curves. As a girl, he was not particularly nice to look at, not nearly as nice as Alma was. 

He’d thought as a boy perhaps he might look a bit nicer, and he did, in his own opinion, but it wasn’t like he could stay like this. He couldn’t buy his own shirts and pants, he couldn’t cut his hair, he couldn’t even get away with wearing flat shoes half the time. 

His mother was always after him about keeping up with fashion, which he supposed was why she was so eager to have Alma over so often. Alma, with her naturally curly hair, her perfect curves and slender waist, her ironed dresses and heeled shoes. She was beautiful. Victor had never denied her that. 

And she was good, too! While Victor was sullen and reluctant to help around the house, while he burnt everything he set his hands on until his mother chased him out of the kitchen, Alma was kind and gracious, with boundless patience, even for Victor’s many failings. 

He’d told her, many times, of his admiration for her, and in return, she’d told him of her one greatest flaw, which was that despite all of the beauty and goodness that would’ve made her the perfect wife and mother, she had never once felt a thing for a man. 

Victor had thought that irrelevant, and something that would surely pass until she’d told him she favored other women instead. 

And that, he knew, was the sole reason he had won her heart out of all those who had tried. 

Because even in a man’s shirt, Victor was a woman. 

He would always be a woman. 

“Here you go,” Alma said, walking into the bathroom and slipping up behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Are you all right, darling?”

“Yes, of course,” Victor managed. “Thank you, Allie.”

“Of course,” she echoed, pressing the clothes into his hands, almost like she knew he wouldn’t have taken them otherwise, and she stepped back while he unbuttoned his father’s shirt and pulled it off, revealing the piece of clothing he’d designed to hide the few curves he possessed. That, too, was removed, and the rest of his clothing followed, and only when he was completely bare did he begin to dress again, this time in the skirt and blouse Alma had selected for him. 

It made it easier, somehow, when she picked out his clothes. If she gave him the clothes, he could pretend this was all a favor for her. That all of the unhappiness was simply a burden he’d taken on to please his sweetheart. 

And in a way, it was. Because Alma liked women, and despite everything, despite everything she did for him and everything she’d said, she waited with her eyes averted until he was dressed like a girl again to lean forward and kiss him. 

“I wish we had more time,” she murmured, and he nodded, tracing her cheek with a light touch before a thought occurred to him. 

“If I do it,” he said suddenly. “I could marry you.”

She pulled back, eyes wide. “You can’t mean that.”

“Think about it!” Victor pressed on. “You don’t want a husband, no one would question me if I had a wife. You can have everything you’ve ever wanted, free of a man. It’s perfect!”

“You couldn’t ask my father for my hand, he’d recognize you,” she pointed out, but then immediately contradicted herself. “I was going to have to run away anyway unless I married a man. Oh, but you would be a man, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Victor insisted. “I’m just going to pretend.”

“You want to be,” she said. “So you will be.”

“Not in the ways that matter.”

“What ways?”

Victor made a few vague gestures to certain areas of his body, and Alma’s face turned red. 

“That’s not all that matters!” she said in a high-pitched voice, shaking her head quickly. She was rather easily flustered, which Victor found amusing, considering some of the things they’d done together. “The most important thing is your heart, don’t you know?”

“My heart wants you,” Victor said simply, shrugging. “That’s all it knows. Nothing for men and women, just you.”

“Sweet,” Alma said, in a voice that would’ve been teasing if she weren’t always so kind. “Would promising truthfulness be included in our vows, perhaps?”

“Oh, fine,” Victor conceded. “I want to be a man, yes. I want to be a man because I want to have a proper job and make my own money, I want to be able to have a family and provide for them, I want to be able to do what I wish. And only men can do that. So if I have to be Victor to get what I want, then I want nothing more than to be Victor.

“And,” he added. “I would not rule you. If you were to ever become unhappy with the arrangement, I would allow you to see other women privately, so long as you did not let it become a known thing, of course. I do not want your loyalty unless you are absolutely certain you wish for me to have it.”

Alma’s expression suggested she still didn’t quite believe him, but thankfully she chose to let it rest. “Very well, then,” she said. “If you manage to set yourself up well by the time I’m twenty, I’ll marry you.”

Victor’s mouth split into a grin, and he kissed her, again and again and again, savoring the taste of victory until he heard the front door’s handle begin to turn.  

The two of them broke apart automatically, and Victor grabbed his discarded clothes, quickly darting into his room to hide them before hurrying to the front room, where Alma and his mother were already carrying bags of groceries. 

“There you are, Thea,” his mother greeted him, smiling even though he hadn’t come to the door instantly, something she’d berated him endlessly for in the past. At her side, Alma shot him an encouraging smile, which he mirrored, leaning forward to kiss his mother’s cheek. 

“How was shopping, Mamma?” he asked, taking a bag from her. 

“Oh, you know how it is,” she said, looking pleased that he’d asked. “I saw your mother, Alma, dear, she wants you home by five. And Thea, we’re having your grandmother for dinner tonight, so try to make an effort, please.”

“Of course, Mamma,” he said, dipping his head, before he followed Alma to the kitchen as his mother went back outside to get the last bags. Ever since Victor’s father had gotten a raise and they’d bought a second automobile, his mother had begun to take it for all her errands, which had the added benefit of giving her enough room to put bags that it was easier not to bring Victor along. 

“You look like you’re barely an inch from hysterics,” Alma said quietly as she began to pull things out of her bag.

Victor opened the refrigerator, pulling out wrapped items and tucking them inside. His mother would doubtlessly rearrange everything later, but it pleased her when he made an effort, so he would. “I’m perfectly all right, but your concern is appreciated.”

“You’re worrying me, doll,” Alma told him lightly, passing him a carton of eggs. “We’ll discuss this at a greater length later, all right?”

“Don’t fuss, love,” Victor said, but he didn’t argue any further. The front door opened again, and his mother hurried into the kitchen, shooing him away from the refrigerator. 

“You girls have fun, understood?” she instructed them. “Alma, I’ll drive you back at four-thirty, so you have an hour. Why don’t you help Thea dress for her grandmother? A bit of color on those lips would do you a world of good, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Mamma,” Victor agreed, handing her the bag and quickly fleeing the kitchen before she had the chance to take it back. Once Victor and Alma were alone in his room once more, he pulled the door shut, then reached for her, grasping both her hands in his own.

“I’m going to get to marry you,” he whispered, staring up at her beautiful, sweet face. “Oh, Allie.”

She looked slightly taken aback, but then her features relaxed in a smile, and she gave a little laugh that always reminded him of a bird’s song. “Oh, is that what this is about?” she asked teasingly, squeezing his hands. “Such a romantic, my fiancée.”

“Your fiancé,” he repeated breathlessly. “My wife-to-be.”

“Mind you, I still expect a ring,” she informed him. “I won’t be won so easily.”

“Oh, you’ll have a ring to make all the other wives green with envy,” he assured her. “Only the finest for my wife. ”

“And will you be my husband or my wife?” Alma asked carefully.

“Your husband on paper,” he said, ignoring how he hated to admit it, but try as he might, that was the truth. He would never be anything but a woman wishing to be otherwise. “Your wife in all the ways that matter.”

Alma looked at him, just looked, like she was trying to read his thoughts from his face. He wasn’t completely sure what she saw, but eventually, she just sighed and shook her head, pulling him closer before freeing her hands to hold his face. His arms slipped around her waist, squeezing them together, and he did not think about how if they were to dance, he would be playing the role of the man. 

“When I call you Victor,” she whispered, her face barely an inch from his, “it’s almost like you forget you were ever unhappy at all.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, just as quietly, “that’s just because you’re the one calling me.”

Chapter Text

“What the fuck?” Valentino finally blurts out, once he’s seemingly recovered from staring slack-jawed at Vox. “That was—that was—“

“Sweet,” Velvette fills in, phone abandoned on her lap. She’s also staring at Vox now. “That was sweet, and you actually sounded like a decent person, what the fuck happened to you?”

“You do not sound like you belong here,” Valentino says decisively. 

“If I’d died when I was seventeen, maybe not,” Vox snorts. “But I died in my thirties. Trust me, I fucked all of that up by then.”

“Did you actually marry her?” Velvette demands. “Do you literally have an entire wife you’ve never mentioned?”

“Not exactly,” Vox says cagily. “Divorce wasn’t a done thing, then, but she hated me by then, so we haven’t exactly been meeting up for brunch. She is here, but I think she’s working for Carmilla.”

“So you were married,” Valentino says slowly. “I’ve been sleeping with a married man for decades. I like that, actually, that’s hot as fuck.”

“Earth marriages don’t hold any legal power in Hell,” Vox reminds him. “Til death do you part and all that? We’re married. You’ve been sleeping with your own husband.”

“Oh, right,” Valentino says, clearly disinterested. Vox doesn’t bother getting insulted. Their marriage was more of a strategic decision than anything else, after Valentino went through that obsession with the arranged marriage trope a decade back and decided he wanted to make that a reality, with his usual refusal to acknowledge that he was not completely free to do whatever he wanted to. Luckily, Velvette had realized what was going on before Val had the time to sign a marriage contract without reading it and Vox had been able to prevent him from giving away a large portion of his profits and half of his contracted souls in exchange for a reluctant Hellborn bride that was a distant cousin of the Goetia family. 

After that narrowly avoided fiasco, it had been decided by popular vote (Vel and Vox against Val) that Valentino was no longer trusted to control his own marital status, and Vox had drafted a new contact that bound the two of them without any exchange of money or property, with a clause that Valentino could not divorce him without unless Vox was fully aware of the circumstances, which would hopefully be enough to prevent any major loss of Vee assets. 

“Enough with the questions, anyway,” Vox says. “I didn’t question either of you this much.”

“Because Val was just as much of a bitch then as he is now,” Vel supplies. 

“And Vel was just as murderous over things most would dismiss as unimportant,” Valentino adds. “Not me, of course. I think that was iconic, dollface.”

“You, however,” Velvette continues, ignoring Valentino. Vox is still trying to decide whether or not killing that girl is actually a sore spot for her, and if it is, if he should care. It’s a little ridiculous if it is, actually, out of everything she’s done, killing one lonely, pathetic teenage girl is what bothers her? Honestly, it didn’t sound like the girl was going to turn out to be much of anything at all anyway. “You were practically writing poetry about all the joy and happiness you felt at the thought of marrying that girl. That story sounded like a sappy, overdone romcom.”

“I got over it,” Vox says.

“Thank fuck for that,” Valentino remarks. “She sounds so high-maintenance.”

Vox isn’t even going to dignify that flaming pile of hypocrisy with a response. 

“What happened after you ran away?” Vel presses. “C’mon, Vox, details.”

“No,” he says. “You’re breaking the rules of your own game.”

“Legit, who cares. Spill.”

“You first.”

She flips him off. 

He changes his screen display to an image of a sad-looking puppy begging. 

She doesn’t react.

He changes the picture to a cat.

Still nothing.

He de-ages the cat to a few weeks old.

“Oh, whatever,” she complains. “Fine. What do I even tell you about?”

“Well, Voxy and I both had stories about lovers,” Valentino says eagerly. 

“And? So did I, technically.”

“No, no, no, babydoll, that doesn’t count. Someone you didn’t immediately murder.”

Velvette thinks for a moment. Then another moment. Vox’s face switches from the begging kitten to his regular face with one eyebrow raised. 

“How important is the immediately?” she finally asks. Valentino cackles.

“Did you kill everyone you fucked around with?” he asks incredulously. “Damn, chiquita.”

“It was his own fault,” she sniffs. “I asked him to do me one little favor, and he fucked it up and got himself in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Valentino questions, looking fully intrigued. It makes sense for him to be this interested in Vel’s high school bullshit, it’s like one of his stupid reality shows he won’t let Vox cancel and replace with something worth watching. 

“Suspension, mainly. But that wasn’t what he was really upset about.”

“I’m off the fucking team!”

Ginny rolled her eyes as discreetly as possible, which wasn’t discreet at all seeing how Spencer had spent the entirety of his long-winded rant looking directly at her, but whatever. She was honestly so bored of this. “And? Chill, babe, I’m not going to dump you because you’re not team captain anymore. I’m not that shallow.”

She’d considered it, but it seemed a bit too obviously harsh, considering how he lost it. It would make her look bad in a way she couldn’t explain away, unless maybe she said he blamed her for getting him replaced and got violent…it wouldn’t be a stretch, considering how he was acting now, but no. She actually liked Spencer. He was a good boyfriend, loyal and sweet, willing to do whatever was asked of him. 

She didn’t like how he was talking to her, though, so maybe she’d think about it. It warranted a discussion with Krista, though, so she’d hold off on making any final decisions for now. 

“I only fought that guy because you told me to,” he said, for probably the thousandth time that hour. “This is all your fucking fault!”

“Spence, baby,” Ginny whined. “I thought you liked doing me favors. Would you rather just let him get away with saying terrible things about me? Did you even think about how that would make you look?”

“Better than now!” Spencer snapped. “I’m suspended for three weeks, I’m off the basketball team, and how the fuck am I going to get into college now? No one’s going to take me with this shit on my permanent record!”

“I’m sure there’ll be somewhere,” Ginny said convincingly. “You’re the best of the best, they’d be idiots to let such talent go because of one silly little fight!”

“He has three broken ribs and a sprained wrist!”

“Well, I didn’t do that,” she pointed out, giving up on comforting him. If he was going to be so fucking ungrateful, she wouldn’t bother. “No one would’ve cared if you stopped at a few bruises.”

“You cannot seriously be blaming me for this,” he said incredulously, like that wasn’t super fucking obvious. “You’re delusional.”

“And you’re dramatic, there, we match,” she said, yawning. “Want to cuddle?”

“No.” 

“Boring.”

“Ginny, you’ve ruined my life. You have fucked up any chance I had at a good career.”

“It’s three fucking weeks, chill out. Maybe if you start being nicer to me I’ll actually visit you once or twice.”

“I had a spotless record before this,” he spat out. “And you ruined it.”

“If it was seriously such a big deal to you, maybe you should’ve just said no,” Ginny pointed out. “Like, god, I asked nicely and batted my eyelashes at you, I didn’t tie you up and throw him at you.”

“You were crying!” Spencer said angrily, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve looked like an asshole! Damnit, Ginny, is it so hard for you to even acknowledge that you fucked up?”

“No,” she said, flopping backward. She was sitting on her bed, relaxing while Spencer paced around her room. The door was open a crack, but only because neither of them had bothered to close it. Neither of Ginny’s parents were home, and even if they hadn’t been, they wouldn’t have cared. Her father probably wouldn’t have even noticed Spencer was there, much less being all mean and rude and yelling at her. “I know when I fuck up, and I know when you fuck up. And it’s very easy for me to acknowledge that this is your fault.”

“I did it for you.”

“And I think it was sweet! But this isn’t fun at all.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he snapped.

“And next time you ask to come over, be more specific about what you’ve got planned,” Ginny added, admiring the two flowers Krista had painted on her ceiling years ago. “I wasted my good lipstick on this shit.”

“I’m done,” Spencer said. 

“Finally,” Ginny groaned, sitting back up. “Are you going to storm out now, or can we have fun?”

“I’m going to leave,” he said, not looking at her. His fists were clenched at his sides. “And I’m not coming back. Ever. Because we’re over.”

Ginny paused, staring at him, trying to figure out what he’d just said. Because she couldn’t have heard him right. “What?”

“I’m breaking up with you,” he said, finally looking up from the floor. His eyes were narrowed. He looked just as determined as he had hours earlier, when he was marching up to Blake, ready to pound him into the pavement for calling Ginny a psychopathic bitch. “I want a girlfriend who actually cares about me. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“Babe,” Ginny protested, mind reeling. “I do care about you. I love you. I’m just a little upset right now, okay? Today was a lot.”

“Everything is a lot for you,” he retorted. “Any excuse to keep being such a shitty person. I don’t know why I bothered with Blake, he was fucking right.”

“Spence,” Ginny said quietly. “Spence. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you. And all I see is a psychopathic, cruel, crazy bitch.”

Ginny thought for a moment. She considered her options. 

“Wait a sec, please,” she requested politely, and got off her bed, walking over to the door. She shut it, locked it, and then grabbed her phone from the table she kept it on, holding it between her shoulder and ear as she dialed Krista’s number. 

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked. He seemed more confused than angry, now, probably unsettled by Ginny’s sudden calmness. 

“I need to make a call, first, then we can talk about this,” she told him, glancing up casually. She hit the final number and waited as the phone rang. 

It clicked, and Krista’s voice came through. “Hi, what’s up?”

“Kristy, babes,” Ginny said, smiling to herself at her best friend’s voice. “It’s Gin. Listen, y’know the problem I had earlier?”

“Yeah?” Krista said, before she caught on as quickly as she always did. “Worst case?”

“Yup,” Ginny confirmed. “So, hey, me and him are gonna have a little chat, and you’ll start heading over.”

“Got it,” Krista said and laughed. “You’re one crazy bitch, girl.”

“You love it,” Ginny said, blowing the phone a kiss. “Mwah. See you soon, mkay?”

“I’ll be there in ten,” Krista promised, before hanging up. Ginny’s grin grew even wider as she replaced the phone, turning back to face Spencer. 

“No one dumps Virginia Campbell,” she informed him happily. 

“You’re being really weird,” he shot. “Who talks about themself in third person?”

“Psychopathic bitches,” Ginny said, giggling. She practically skipped over to her bedside table and pulled one of her father’s old pocket knives out of the drawer. “Thanks for giving Blake something to cry about, I really appreciate that. Hopefully, I manage to visit him in the hospital, you didn’t do anything that’ll kill him, and I need to fix that.”

“Ginny,” Spencer said slowly. From an outsider’s point of view, this was probably funny, seeing as he was cowering from a girl barely half his size. From Ginny’s point of view, it was hysterical, especially considering how he didn’t even bother trying to get the knife away from her, or even unlocking the door and running away. He wasn’t very smart, Spencer. 

That was why she’d dated him. She didn’t like boys smarter than her. They were difficult. 

“Remember Joanna McCann?” Ginny asked him. She didn’t bother waiting for her answer, she knew he did. “Blake still thinks I killed her. Won’t shut up about it, which is annoying, because I already look suspicious enough as it is. And now, I’m going to finish him off. But your turn’s first.”

“You can’t kill me,” Spencer insisted, running a hand through his hair. His eyes were wide open, and he looked slightly manic. “You’re four-ten. I don’t think you weigh eighty pounds soaking wet. I can pick you up. I’m two fucking feet taller than you, what the fuck even is this? Are you an idiot?”

“No,” Ginny said. 

“ Look,” Spencer stressed, and then he darted forward, scooping her up in a bridal carry. “There, you’re done. How the fuck did you think you could kill me? ”

“Like this,” Ginny said, and stabbed the knife through the skin of his neck, into his jugular vein. Spencer froze, then made an odd sort of gurgling noise and buckled at the knees, dropping Ginny as he grabbed for his neck, trying in vain to stop the blood flow. 

She landed on the floor in a crouch, jumping up immediately and taking a few quick steps back, so that when Spencer fell forward he didn’t fall on her. 

“Here,” she said, grabbing an empty vase on her dresser and kneeling in front of her, prying his already weakening hands away from his neck before sticking the vase underneath to contain some of the bloody mess. “There you go. I don’t feel like washing the floor again, so cooperate.”

Spencer groaned. “Ginny,” he gasped. “Ginny, no.”

“Ginny, yes,” she countered. “I really thought this would be quicker. Huh. Let’s see…”

She stabbed him again, at the side of his neck, and shoved through until the tip of the blade poked out the other side. Blood gushed out, staining her hands, and she wrinkled her nose. At least she’d worn a tank top today. 

Spencer was no longer moving. There. Done. 

Ginny got to her feet, going to put her hands on her hips before stopping herself. She considered the mess. 

“I really wish you’d just gotten over it,” she told Spencer’s corpse. “This is so annoying.”

The doorbell rang, and Ginny swore. “Krista?” she yelled. 

“Here!” Krista called back. 

“Just come in, it’s unlocked! My hands are dirty!”

She heard the doorknob turn, and then Krista’s footsteps. Ginny grabbed a box of tissues, wiping at her hands until they were clean enough to unlock her bedroom door. Krista was waiting on the other side, and when Ginny opened the door she scanned the room over Ginny’s head, grimacing when she saw the mess. 

“Always so dramatic,” Krista remarked. “I can’t believe you actually went through with it. Not the first time, I guess.”

“I didn’t think I’d have to,” Ginny admitted. “Didn’t expect him to be so difficult, honestly. Imagine getting killed over a three-week suspension, I’d literally die. Again.”

Krista laughed. “Whatever. Where are we dumping him?”

Ginny thought. “Either we chop him up, make burgers out of him, and sell them, or the lake.”

“The lake works,” Krista said. “He’d probably taste like shit anyway.”

“Probably,” Ginny agreed. “Check my dad’s closet for a suitcase he’ll fit in, I’m going to start cleaning up the blood.”

“Wash your hands first,” Krista advised. “You’ll leave handprints everywhere.”

“Right, right,” Ginny agreed. “We need to wash his arms off, I grabbed them when I was stabbing him, my handprints might’ve gotten on him.”

“Do you have a story?” Krista checked. 

“No,” Ginny admitted. “I’ll just play dumb. Worked last time.”

“You’re probably, like, a person of interest now,” Krista pointed out. Ginny shrugged. 

“It’ll be fine,” she dismissed. “No one even cares about Spencer now that he’s not basketball team captain. He’s so boring. Like, he asked to come over tonight, and did he even kiss me? No, he just yelled and insulted me. He said Blake was right about me, can you believe it?”

“The audacity,” Krista agreed supportively, like a proper best friend. “So is that why you stabbed him?”

“No, he tried to dump me. Me.”

“He did not,” Krista gasped. “Girl, seriously? Does he really think he can do better than you? ”

“Maybe if he went for you,” Ginny suggested generously. “I’m way hotter than, like, everyone else. You’re the only one who stands a chance.”

“Aw, you’re sweet,” Krista beamed. “But I would never.”

“Exactly, like, what kind of friend would you be then?”

“I would rather gut myself than date a guy dumb enough to dump you, even if I was a backstabbing traitor,” Krista emphasized. 

“Exactly. And no one else is even close to my level. So who the fuck does he think he is?”

“Or was,” Krista corrected, sniggering. “You’re right, he deserved this.”

“Of course I am,” Ginny said, turning and walking to the kitchen, leaving the body that used to be Spencer behind without a second thought. Krista followed. Of course she did. 

“You really think we won’t be caught, Gin?” Krista asked.

“Of course not,” Ginny assured her. “Are you really doubting me? Me? ”

“I’d never,” Krista said. 

“Good. You don’t need to worry, Kris. I don’t get caught.”

“Did you get caught?” Vox asks. 

“Of course not,” Velvette says, echoing her words from all those years ago. When did she say she was born, again? Vox checks his memory files. 1982, and she killed Spencer when she was fifteen, so that was nearly thirty years ago. 

It’s a long time. Maybe not for Vox, who was born over a century over, but he’s so used to thinking of Velvette as young that it’s jarring to realize she’s been around for decades. If she hadn’t died, she’d be middle-aged, a proper adult—a grown woman. 

Instead, she’s eternally a child. Maybe literally. Vox doesn’t know how old she was when she died, only that it was extremely young. 

“I approve,” Valentino is saying. “Top-notch bitch behavior, dollface.”

“Vel,” Vox says. “How old were you when you died?”

She looks at him, and frowns. “How old were you? ”

“Thirty-nine. Were you even an adult?”

“Yes,” she says stiffly. “I was eighteen.”

“I was thirty-one,” Valentino offers. Vox would think he was trying to defuse the tension if that wouldn’t be the most un-Valentino-like possibility there was. Most likely he hasn’t even noticed Velvette’s upset. Val can be like that sometimes. 

“Vel, why are you here?” Vox asks. 

“That’s not how the game works,” she says, her voice sharp. She’s picked up her phone again, and she’s completely focused on it. “Val’s next. And you can’t ask questions.”

“That wasn’t a rule,” Valentino says slowly, like he isn’t completely sure. He isn’t the brightest sometimes, especially when he’s high. It’s kind of ridiculous, in Vox’s opinion, how Val has such a high tolerance for so many drugs that all getting high does is make him impossible to hold a conversation with. Which is really fucking annoying, if you’re his business partner, but making Vox or Velvette’s lives (afterlives?) easier has never been anywhere on Valentino’s list of concerns.  

“Whatever,” Velvette snaps. “It’s still Val’s turn.”

“All you had to do was ask, baby,” Valentino says with a smirk that displays his pointed teeth. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, Vox?” Velvette prompts, giving him a pointed look over her phone. “Since you’re so fucking nosy, go on.”

“Fine,” Vox says. There was something he was curious about. “How the fuck did you ever believe you were mostly straight? ”

“I didn’t, actually,” Valentino corrects. “I grew out of it when I was seventeen.”

“How?” Vox asks. On the other end of the couch, Velvette gives Val a brief sideways glance, which is enough to give away her interest. 

“Well,” Valentino says, and for some reason all the enjoyment is gone from his tone. “I told you about Raymond, didn’t I?”

A thumbs-up emoji flashes briefly in the place where Vox’s right cheek would be. 

Valentino takes a long drag from his cigarette, then exhales, disappearing in a fog of red smoke. From the haze, a voice says, “Raymond’s older brother took a liking to me around that time.”

“Say another goddamn word about this fucking nonsense, boy, and you’ll be sleeping on the streets, you understand?”

“Fine. Fine! Not like I’m your fucking son or anything, huh?”

“Careful, brat. Don’t want your brother to hear you, huh? Keep Raymond out of your nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense! I’m telling the truth, Pops, come on, just look at me! Look at me!”

“What’s wrong?” Scott asked Oscar, glancing between him and the door of Raymond’s house. As he spoke, his fingers twitched, like he was stopping himself from signing along to his spoken words. 

Scott had gone away to take a class in some kind of fancy sign language for the deaf a few months earlier, and once he’d gotten back he’d admitted to Oscar in private that it was the most amazing thing he’d ever known, to finally have a way to talk where he understood the other person perfectly. 

He’d stopped signing openly a few days later, after getting sick of the ridicule, but frankly, Oscar didn’t know what he’d expected. Oscar thought the signing was stupid, and unnecessary, given how Scott had almost always understood him, but he didn’t care enough to rag on him for it and if he let Scott sign around him, Scott usually stopped being so mopey. 

“Raymond’s pop’s yelling at Roy for something,” Oscar told him. “Not sure what.”

“Well, shit,” Scott remarked. “Think you should knock?”

“Nah,” Oscar decided. “Gonna check Raymond’s room, climb into the window. You wait here.”

“I wanna come,” Scott protested, but Oscar shook his head. 

“You won’t hear if anyone’s coming,” he reminded him. “Or if you’re being loud. I’ll be back soon.”

“Fine,” Scott sighed, looking put out, but he let it go and Oscar hurried away, around the house until he found Raymond’s window. 

It was easy enough to jiggle open, especially considering how many times Oscar had done this before, and he was able to boost himself up and slip inside without too much effort. 

Raymond wasn’t inside. That…wasn’t good. 

“GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!” Raymond’s father roared from somewhere else in the house, and Oscar flinched instinctively, getting to his feet as quietly as possible and pressing himself against the wall, risking a peek out of Raymond’s open door down the hallway. He could just make out Mr. Preston’s shadow in the kitchen at the end of the hallway, and he watched as the man tossed something metallic at the other person with him, who let out a gasp of pain before ducking out of the kitchen, staggering away. 

“DON’T YOU LET ME CATCH YOU SNEAKING OUT, BOY,” Roy’s father screamed after him as Roy’s eyes met Oscar’s and widened in fear, and then the next thing Oscar knew Roy was slamming Raymond’s bedroom door shut and locking it before slumping against the wall, falling to the floor. 

“What are you doing here, Ozzie?” Roy whispered, giving Oscar an attempt at one of his usual blinding smiles, but he was shaking too much for it to be charming and all it did was make Oscar wince. “Better run, baby. My dad’s in a temper.”

“What happened?” Oscar demanded, quietly. As quietly as he could. He crouched down. “What’s going on? Where’s Raymond?”

Roy’s smile disappeared. “‘Course you’re only after him,” he mumbled, sounding disappointed, for some stupid reason. “Never change, huh?”

Oscar just looked at him. 

“He snuck out ‘bout an hour ago,” Roy breathed out, face contorting in pain as he clutched his side. “Right when Pops started throwing pans.”

“Why is he doing that, exactly?” Oscar questioned wryly, raising an eyebrow. It’d taken him longer than he’d like to perfect that, but almost every time he did it, he got the result he was looking for. 

And there it was: Roy’s breathing hitched, his cheeks going just the slightest bit more pink, cheeks that were already red from screaming flushing just a bit more. 

“Because he found out I’m a queer,” Roy admitted in a hushed voice. Oscar froze, unwelcome fear creeping up through his veins, his blood turning solid. 

“And how did he find that out, Preston?” Oscar asked, his voice barely audible. 

“Because I told him,” Roy answered, and Oscar relaxed. “You don’t need to act so relieved, y’know. I ain’t told a soul about you.”

“No one would believe you anyway,” Oscar said dismissively, more to himself as an attempt to calm his rapidly beating heart than to Roy, but from the way Roy’s eyes narrowed he knew the older man had taken it personally. “What? You know how many girls I’ve been with.”

“Did you like them?” Roy asked softly. “Or do you like me? Who are you lying to?”

“My aunt, when she asks if I’m up to anything,” Oscar said, rolling his eyes. “It’s just fun, Preston. Don’t be so serious.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Roy insisted, strangely serious all of a sudden. “We’re something special, Ozzie, don’t pretend. I—I love you, don’t you see that? I’m an adult, I’m twenty, I can take care of you, I can take you away from here. You think you’ll be fine on your own? C’mon, sweetheart, you don’t have parents. You can’t get a decent job, hell, it’s a miracle they let you into high school. You won’t be able to get work, a house, baby, you’re screwed. I can help you. I can—I can take care of you, Ozzie, I love you, please, please—“

“Preston,” Oscar interrupted him, tapping a finger against his lips. Roy fell completely, utterly silent, which was a good thing, because he kept forgetting to whisper during his rant and the last thing Oscar needed was to be caught by Mr. Preston, alone in a locked room with the guy who’d just announced his homosexuality. 

Oscar looked at Roy, and, just for a moment, he considered going along with it. 

He thought the offer over. 

And then he thought some more and realized how ridiculously stupid it was that he was ever considering it in the first place. 

“No,” Oscar said easily. “First of all, I’m not some helpless girl, and stop acting like you know things you don’t. Second, we hooked up once, Preston. Chill out.”

“What?” Roy mumbled, eyes widening. He looked almost heartbroken. Devastated. Stupid. 

“No,” Oscar repeated. “Calm down. You’re being hysterical, and I don’t have time for it. I’ve got to go find Raymond, he probably thinks you’re dead, and someone needs to go calm him down before he starts overreacting. You, I don’t know, go have a nap or something. Take a cold shower. Knock whatever this is off, like, holy shit. Keep going on about that and I’m not going to come back for another round.”

“Ozzie,” Roy pleaded helplessly. “Ozzie, please, I know you’re scared, we’ll be okay, we’ll find someone safe—“

“Preston,” Oscar groaned. “It’s not that deep. It was fun, okay? C’mon, you know how I roll. What about me makes you think any of that’s going to happen? You’re just being dramatic because you’re upset.” He laughed, stifling it with his sleeve. “That’s kinda funny, actually. Guess they are right about queers being dramatic, huh?”

Roy didn’t reply. He just kept staring at Oscar, the emotion slowly draining from his face, just staring at Oscar like he barely remembered who he was. 

That was better, actually. 

“Go back to your room,” Oscar advised him, since Roy obviously wasn’t going to be very capable of intelligent thought for a while. “Don’t want anyone finding you in Raymond’s room, not after that. Clean yourself up and lie low for the next few hours, got it? I’ll make sure Raymond comes back before dark, last thing your dad needs is to think both of his sons are homos, he’ll really lose it then.”

“I can’t stay here,” Roy whispered. He didn’t bother moving his eyes to Oscar’s face, still staring into space. “I can’t stay here with him.”

“Well, you’re an adult, but you don’t have money or your own car,” Oscar reminded him. “And no one’s going to let a queer crash in their son’s bedroom, so just tough it out. You’ll be fine.”

“You’re leaving me with him,” Roy said.

“Yes,” Oscar agreed. “To help you out. He’s not going to like finding you with another guy, so I won’t let him. Also, I did have plans for today, so…bye.”

Roy didn’t respond. He just buried his head in between his knees, apparently deciding not to listen to Oscar’s advice. Whatever. Oscar wasn’t his boyfriend. It wasn’t his job to tuck Roy into bed. 

So he left Roy there on Raymond’s floor, sliding back out of Raymond’s window, and then flinching as he almost fell onto Scott, who was sitting with his back against the house.

Scott jumped up, pressing a finger to his lips and giving Oscar a questioning look. It wasn’t sign language, obviously, but it served its purpose. Oscar nodded, gesturing for Scott to hurry away, silently reconsidering whether or not this whole signing thing did have its uses. 

“We’re far enough away,” Oscar said once they were a few houses down. He tapped Scott’s shoulder and repeated himself until Scott nodded and stopped. Trying to have a conversation with Scott was impossible unless you weren’t moving.

“What happened?” Scott asked. “Was Ray there?”

Oscar shook his head. “I talked to Roy. Apparently, Raymond ran off hours ago, so we have to go find him.”

Scott paused, studying Oscar with a bemused expression before he nodded. Another reason to learn a few of Scott’s hand motions, Oscar half-joked to himself. He wouldn’t have to keep repeating himself and waiting for Scott to understand. The pauses were getting longer and longer as time went on, and it was starting to get irritating. 

“Got it,” Scott said. “What happened with them? What’d Roy do?”

Oscar considered lying, but he didn’t really see a point. Surely Raymond would tell them as soon as they found him anyway, so it didn’t matter if Oscar told Scott now. “Roy’s saying he’s a queer.”

Scott stared at him for a few seconds, and Oscar rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to repeat himself. “Roy’s a queer.”

“I got it the first time,” Scott said. “But, I mean…for real?”

“Yeah.”

“No wonder Ray ditched,” Scott remarked. “Mr. Preston must’ve tried to kill him.”

“Don’t know what he expected,” Oscar agreed. “Aren’t you supposed to lie to your folks about that stuff?”

Scott gave him a critical glance. “Wouldn’t you know that more than I would?”

Oscar scoffed. “Not a queer, and even if I was, I don’t have folks.”

Scott laughed. “Ain’t saying you’re a queer, I’m saying I don’t think there’s a single person out there you’d push away if they kissed you first.”

“There’s one or two,” Oscar objected. “Mr. Preston, to start.”

“Doncha wanna be Ray’s stepfather?” Scott teased. “I’d kiss him, for a second or two maybe, if I got to ground Ray whenever I wanted.”

Oscar shoved him. “Don’t,” he advised. “You don’t want anyone thinking you’re Roy’s secret boyfriend.”

Scott pulled a face. “Feel like he’d be too high-maintenance, don’t you?”

“Definitely,” Oscar agreed, tugging Scott’s arm to get him to start walking again. For some reason, he’d been struck with the sudden urge to get as far away from the Preston house as possible. “Hey, you should teach me a few of your hand-language things sometimes.”

Scott’s eyes widened, and Oscar shook his hand in a vague gesture before motioning between them, in what he hoped was enough of an explanation. Scott nodded quickly, a grin spreading across his face. 

“Sure, Oz,” he agreed, looking happier than Oscar had ever seen him before, and he walked away from the Preston house while Oscar walked away from Roy. 

“So he died?” Velvette guesses as soon as Valentino settles back into the couch, finished with his story. She’d stopped sulking midway through it, although she was still fiddling with her phone, but Vox had peeped into it and found her just occupying herself with a drawing app. It was something he’d designed for her shortly after the formation of the Vees, as a gift, and it pleased him more than he’d like to admit to know that she still used it. Quite frequently, her phone told him.

“Hung himself in Raymond’s room,” Val confirms. “His father found him when he was looking to do it himself, so at least I didn’t have to deal with too much of Raymond’s whining. I mean, if he hadn’t been such an idiot about it, he’d have been fine.”

“And going to you with some big, romantic gesture?” Vox adds. “He sounds like an idiot.”

“He was,” Valentino sighs. “Not a bad fuck, though. Makes me almost nostalgic…”

He shakes his head, feigning sadness, and Vox scoffs loudly, rolling his eyes. Or, well. He doesn’t have eyes, exactly, but he’s used to adjusting his screen instead of actually moving his face. 

“Roy Preston?” Vox checks. Valentino brightens, nodding with a hungry smile.

Vox spins through his files, sending a program to check his records of Val’s and Vel’s contracted souls, personally skimming through his own. Nothing. He pulls the Earth phone he’d paid a few imps off to fetch for him out of his pocket, pulsing his own electricity through it to override the lack of Wi-Fi or cell service. There’s none of that in Hell, just Vox. He’d never figured out how to duplicate that perfectly, or at least, not without the information becoming accessible to people other than him.

It’s much simpler and safer if VoxTek devices are simply powered by Vox. Proximity to him makes everything run much faster, and his VBots work well enough for the other six Rings. 

It’s also a very good way to make sure Velvette and Valentino never stray out of sight of his cameras, but no one else needs to know that line of reasoning. The truth about Hell’s technology is Vox’s secret, and will remain that way unless either Alastor figures it out or he needs a good reason that someone shouldn’t kill him.  

And also because if Valentino and Velvette ever figure out how Vox shuts everything down so easily, they, or at least Velvette, will come up with a failsafe in the case of Vox’s death. And then Vox will become much too expendable for his own liking. 

The Earth phone responds well enough to his energy, taking a millisecond to adjust before Vox wedges the tip of a claw into the charging port, accessing its internet and searching for a picture of Roy, before jumping back into the VoxNet and sending the picture through his servers, telling his cameras to alert him to any potential matches. 

“He’s not in Hell,” Vox reports, about three seconds after Val gave him the name. Quick enough, he decides. Efficiency is important, more than anything else, but he’ll allow himself a few seconds of wiggle room due to the drugs still lingering in his system. “Either exterminated or an angel.”

“Exterminated, then,” Val says. “Heaven’s picky as fuck about age gaps, and I know I wasn't the youngest person he'd fucked.” 

Velvette rolls her eyes. “Tragic. Moving on.”

“You again, baby,” Valentino says in that silky voice of his, blowing red smoke in his direction. It curls around him, brushing against Vox’s neck, but not dipping any deeper and getting into his vents or climbing higher and messing with his ports. It’s surprisingly considerate of Val, who usually just ignores Vox’s complaints about feeling suffocated and overheating. “Did you run away with your hot little cariña after all?”

“No,” Vox says. “I came back for her a few years later, just like she told me to. I ran away on my own.”

“How’d that work out for you?” Velvette asks, fingers pausing their movement for just a few seconds. 

“Badly,” Vox admits. “Very, very badly.”

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Victor stiffened, going as still as possible, trying to slow his breathing even more than it already was. Alma had been right about his chest; he’d only been dressed like this for a few hours and it already hurt, but he ignored it. He could not be discovered. 

“Come out!” the woman called away, footsteps getting closer. He watched her shoes come nearer and nearer from where he was hidden underneath her porch, silently cursing every single decision that had led him to this. “If you’re a child, best make yourself known. We don’t shoot children, hun, but we sure shoot deer.”

Her shoes stopped, and she pulled her skirt up before leaning over, peering down right into Victor’s wide, terrified eyes. 

“Ah,” she said, satisfied. “There you are. Enough of that hiding, come on out. You’ll have to sooner or later, might as well be now.”

Victor hesitated. The woman straightened back up, tapping her foot expectantly, and he decided that she was right, and it would probably be less embarrassing if he just crawled out now.

It was still embarrassing to be wiggling out from under a stranger woman’s shed while she waited impatiently for you to get up, but it could’ve been worse. At least it was dry under there, and as Victor got to his feet he was able to brush all the dirt and leaves off his clothes. 

He was taller than her, which somehow did not help him feel less intimidated in the slightest. 

“What do you think you’re doing down there?” she demanded. She had an accent he didn’t recognize, but he guessed it was Creole simply because this was Louisiana. At least, he prayed it was. If he’d gotten on the wrong train, there was no hope for him. 

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, briefly wondering if he should be calling her that. His father would’ve smacked him for calling a colored woman ma’am, but he was never going to see his father again and it would probably do him some good to be polite. She didn’t seem the motherly sort, but perhaps it was worth a try to appeal to her maternal side? “I needed somewhere to sleep. I’ll be going, now, I’m dreadfully sorry for bothering you.”

“Now hold on, child,” she called, before he had even had a chance to turn around. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen, ma’am,” he lied. He was nearly eighteen, but if he was going to pretend he was a boy, he would have to have an explanation for his lack of facial hair. Eventually, he’d need some way around that, but claiming youth ought to work for the time being. 

“Mm-hm,” she said slowly, like she didn’t believe him. She gestured for him to take a step closer, and he did, barely stopping himself from flinching when she grabbed his jaw, turning his face to examine a scratch on his cheek he’d gotten from one of the dead plants under the porch. Her cold fingers traced it, and her eyes narrowed like she was getting ready to accuse him of a crime. 

Instead, she released him, then marched back up the porch steps, pausing briefly at the door of her house to gesture him to follow her. 

Victor considered his choices. There weren’t very many. He followed her. 

The house was sparsely decorated, but it was warm, with a comfortable air to it. Victor could smell some sort of cooking meat in the other room, with spices he didn’t recognize. She hurried out of the room, returning seconds later with a jar of something vaguely yellowish and a wet rag. 

“Ain’t smart to leave any sort of wound uncleaned,” she informed him matter-of-factly. “Sit down, you’re a bit tall for me, eh?”

Victor sat on a stool. The woman washed his cheek and rubbed the yellowish paste into it, which admittedly made it feel a bit better. She did the same for the scrapes on his hands, and when she was done she left again to put the supplies away before popping her head back into the front room. 

“Are you hungry?” she asked, and he was, so he sat at her kitchen table and ate a bowl of what was possibly the spiciest food he’d ever eaten, somehow managing not to burst into tears. Once he was finished, she set both their bowls aside and began her interrogation. 

“Do you have a name, child?”

“Victor, ma’am,” he told her, as confidently as he could manage. Her eyebrows raised, and she looked him over with a dubious expression. 

“Are you a lad, then?” she asked, and he nodded firmly. She stared at him for a few more seconds, before sighing and putting her hands on her hips. 

“Look here, Victor,” she said, not unkindly. “I can’t fault you if you’re planning to lie a bit, but I’ll tell you now no folks with decent eyes will believe you.”

“I know that, ma’am,” he mumbled. “It’s…I’m going to make it better.”

“You’d better,” she told him honestly. “Where are your parents?”

“Haven’t got any,” he said, figuring it was as good as true anyway. Victor Nixon didn’t have parents. All he had was dreams that were barely possible and a girl who might marry him if God took pity on them. “‘s just me.”

“Now, ain’t that a shame,” the woman muttered to herself, looking thoughtful. Finally, she said, “Do you have anywhere to stay anywhere else? Any relatives?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Enough of that. Always good to see a youngster with proper manners, but you don’t need any of those ma’ams with me. Call me Aunty Ida, or Mrs. Landry, if you’re one of those formal types. Do you have plans for around here?”

“Yes, Aunty Ida,” Victor said, guessing she wasn’t the sort for formalities by the way she wrinkled her nose as she told him her last name. She nodded approvingly, lips curving upwards ever-so-slightly, proving him right. “I want to get a job at a radio station. I heard there was one around here, isn’t there.”

“Oh, yes indeed,” Ida assured him, properly smiling now as she gave the radio on the counter a fond look. “My son works there, runs a very popular segment. He’s a good boy, always has been.”

“Oh?” Victor questioned politely. “What’s it about?”

“News, sometimes, but he mostly focuses on the Huntsman,” she said, clearly pleased with his interest. “Goes into the details of each case, some call it vulgar, but more disagree. Even if it is terrible, it’s good to stay informed, that’s what I always say!”

“Excuse me,” Victor said hesitantly. “Who’s the Huntsman?”

“Oh, well, most call him the Louisiana Butcher, but my boy calls him the Huntsman,” she explained, which Victor did not find helpful in the slightest. “He’s our resident killer.”

“Oh,” Victor said faintly. “And—your son reports on his… murders? ”

“Yes indeed,” she confirmed, somehow not seeming to find this strange or disturbing in the slightest. “Other crimes as well, naturally, but the Huntsman is always more popular. Keeping the people informed, my boy, very responsible.”

She seemed a little sad as she said the last bit, shooting the radio another longing glance. She must’ve been lonely, Victor guessed. There was quite clearly no one else living here, no men’s shoes by the door, no children peeping at him through the doorway, and if her son was as well-established as she claimed, he probably hadn’t been around for some time now. 

“I see,” Victor said, trying his best to appear interested instead of a little frightened. “Maybe I’ll run into him if I manage to get work.”

He almost hoped he didn’t. Ida’s son sounded more than a little strange, and Victor had the feeling that he wouldn’t like the man very much if they did meet. But he didn’t say that, because he was in this strange woman’s house, having accepted her strange medicine and eaten her strangely delicious food, so he figured he should at least pretend to be interested in her strange adult son. 

His parents would’ve been ashamed of him for all of it, even without the running-away-and-sleeping-under-porches business. Well, his mother would’ve fussed over that, but his father would’ve probably moved past Victor’s initial crimes and focused on the bit where he let a colored woman rub strange cream into his face. 

Victor’s father had always been strangely fixated on things like that, and so had most of the men Victor had known. Did that mean he needed to start harping on about segregation too, if he was going to pretend he was a man?

Probably not. That was a childish thought and a foolish one. He’d be downright stupid to reject Ida’s kindness now.  

“I’m sure you will,” she assured him. “You seem like a hard worker. Where are you from?”

“How do you know I’m not from here?” he asked, mostly just to give himself a minute to decide whether or not he wanted to answer. 

“Ain’t no white folks round here,” she told him, and he swallowed awkwardly. “Least, not nearby. Are you from Louisiana?”

“No,” he admitted, deciding there was no point in lying. “Texas.” It was a big enough state, with plenty of runaway children, he assumed. It wasn’t enough information for anyone to find his family. 

“Texas,” Ida mused. “My husband’s mother came from Texas.”

“Did she like it?” Victor asked, mainly for the sake of asking something. 

“Oh, heavens, I couldn’t tell you,” Ida said, shaking her head with exasperation. “That woman never seemed to like a single thing, let me tell you, never did I meet a meaner old lady, but he loved her well enough. All boys love their mothers, I suppose. What’d you think of it, then?”

“It’s somewhere to be from,” he said noncommittally. “I’ve never had much of an opinion on the matter.”

Ida chuckled. “You seem like a good boy,” she told him, seemingly having forgotten about the fact that he wasn’t really a boy at all. He didn’t bother reminding her. He liked it. “Any brothers or sisters?”

“No,” he answered. “Just me.”

“Ah, same for my boy,” she sighed. “Awful shame, to be an only child, I prayed and prayed he’d have a brother or sister, but it wasn’t to be, I suppose. But you seem to have done all right.”

“I suppose,” he allowed, but her expression had changed again, and she was giving him a very contemplative look he didn’t know what to make of. 

“Say,” she said suddenly. “Say, child, Victor, why don’t you stay with me for now? My boy’s left home, so goodness knows I’ve got the room. I wouldn’t feel right, sending you back out into the cold.”

The weather outside was pleasantly warm, but he knew that wasn’t the point. He considered her offer for a moment and then realized he had no other options. If she was secretly the Huntsman, he still would’ve been better off here than underneath someone else’s porch. “If you’ll take me, I’d be awful grateful, ma’a—Aunty Ida.”

She beamed at him, leaning over to pinch his undamaged cheek, which hurt just a bit, but he barely noticed. “Well, I don’t see why not,” she said warmly, looking just as happy as she had when she spoke of her son, but without any underlying sadness. “Come along, honey, I’ll show you Alastor’s old room.”

Chapter Text

“Alastor,” Valentino says, in a flat voice completely devoid of emotion. Which, for Val, is so unusual it’s downright creepy. “Alastor.”

“Alastor, as in the Radio Demon Alastor?” Velvette demands, apparently forgetting she’s supposed to be annoyed with him. “You knew the Radio Demon irl?”

She actually says the letters, which Vox is pretty sure is something she called cringe in a post last week, but he doesn’t care enough to remind her and deal with the inevitable sulking and gaslighting. “Yes.”

“That was his name? He kept it? Why?” Valentino sputters. He’s stopped doing the emotionless voice, apparently done with processing everything.

Big letters fill Vox’s screen, spelling out I DON’T KNOW. Valentino grabs a glass of something from his robot and flings it in Vox’s direction, but Val’s eyesight is bad enough as is without whatever new drug they’re on, which as far as Vox can tell makes you seem to float away from your body. Relatively tame. He’s still waiting to start gurgling green foam or be suddenly possessed with the urge to rail Valentino into the couch. The glass smashes against a wall, and the robot zooms away to clean it up.

Privately, Vox is pretty sure he does know why Alastor didn’t change his name. Because for Vox, for Valentino, for Velvette, their dead selves are the people they never got to be in life.

Alastor has always exactly who he wanted to be, in life and death. Why would he shed his name? He’s the same person he always has been, after all.

That’s Vox’s main theory. The other, much less likely one is that somehow Alastor used his weird voodoo bullshit he was always so fond of to predict that Vox would be following him down here soon. To predict that they’d be friends, and then rivals, and to predict that he would not end up wanting Vox to know anything about him that everyone didn’t know.

If so, he got his wish.

“You lived with his mother,” Val continues. “For—for how long?”

“Two years,” he says. “By then I had saved enough for a house and a ring. I still visited her, sometimes.”

“Again,” Velvette interjects. “What the fuck turned you into this? That sounds like something from a fucking romcom.”

“Hey, rude,” Vox protests halfheartedly. “Anyway, you’re breaking your own rules.”

“Shut up about the rules, god, no one cares,” she groans. “That’s why you’re so obsessed with the guy?”

Vox considers arguing that he’s not obsessed, but decides it’s pointless. Most of the people surrounding him are convinced that he is and won’t accept any sort of argument, although Vox himself isn’t certain.

It’s just…the amount of history between them, the sheer number of shared moments, everything they’ve done together and every year spent by the other’s side, and now all of that is unimportant and Alastor acts like it never happened, like it was meaningless? Like it is meaningless?

Alastor ruined him. Vox was relatively well-balanced before him. He was in love, with plans for the future and the determination to make them a reality. He was—not a good man, necessarily, but he wasn’t a bad one.

And then came Alastor, the charismatic psychopath, and Vox was ruined.

He’s not some sort of victim, of course. Alastor changed him, but he didn’t control him. Vox has always been his own person, even if that person has gotten increasingly terrible. 

But he was a decent man, and then Alastor got too close and Vox got too curious, and then he wasn’t decent anymore and Alastor didn’t even care enough to stick around to observe the mess he’d made of Vox’s happy ending.

And everyone thinks that’s normal? They think Vox is the irrational one for fighting it?

Vox truly does not believe he will ever be able to let it go.

And if that makes him obsessed, so be it.

“Th-at and a number of other reasons,” Vox tells her. Mercifully, she doesn’t point out his glitching. “Any more questions?”

“He was the Huntsman, right?” she checks. “Like, obviously. That’s kind of iconic, actually, reporting on his own crimes? That’s…”

“Top-notch bitch behavior,” Valentino fills in, and then makes a face as he apparently remembers who he’s talking about.

“Yes,” Vox says. “A-n-yth-in-g el-se?”

“Yes, actually,” Valentino says. “I thought you weren’t a girl?”

“I’m n-ot.”

“You keep calling yourself a woman, amorcito.”

“I thought I w-as,” Vox says, struggling to explain. The words that come out are distorted, crackling with static that almost reminds him of Alastor.

Which isn’t very helpful. There’s nothing like bringing up Alastor to ruin Vox’s composure and turn him into nothing but a shaky, glitchy, heartbroken mess.

That’s most of the reason Vox wants Alastor dead. So that maybe he can stop being so pathetic all the time.

That, and he doesn’t really believe Alastor should be allowed to go on living a life without Vox in it.

“I w-as con-fu-sed,” Vox manages to stutter out. “It w-as a diff-diff-rent ti-me. Y-you kn-ow, you—“

“Deep breaths,” Velvette interrupts, looking and sounding bored, but even though she’s tapping away at her phone she’s still watching him. It’s oddly touching. “Dammit, Valentino, you know he gets twitchy about Alastor. You don’t need to keep poking when he’s already stressed out.”

“Oh, touchy,” Val huffs, and for a moment Vox is worried because of just how unusual it is for Velvette to openly care about his mental state.

“He’s fucking with my phone,” she complains, and the moment’s gone. That does make more sense. “Babe, chill. We can stop talking about the guy, okay? Val’ll stop being a whiney baby. Just don’t crash.”

“Fu-ck off,” Vox wheezes. He feels hot all over. He wants to put his face in his hands, like he always used to do when he was stressed, but he doesn’t have a face anymore.

Or proper hands. Ones without razor-sharp claws at the tip of each finger, at least.

None of that is helping. Nothing helps, when he gets like this. Alastor used to, but he wants nothing to do with Vox now, and either way, Vox has a feeling his presence wouldn’t help at all now.

That isn’t helping either. The slight pressure on his chest as Velvette’s weight settles on him does a bit, but she’s not nearly big or heavy enough to fix much. Valentino would be more useful, with all his long limbs that curl around Vox’s torso, but Val’s smoke in his vents is the last thing Vox needs when he’s already this wound-up.

“My turn,” Velvette says, laying her head over the place where his heart would be. “Just listen to me, ‘kay? Focus, or whatever. You wanted to know why I’m here, right?”

Vox doesn’t bother nodding, or trying to talk. The latter won’t work, and the former seems beyond him at the moment. It doesn’t matter. Velvette scarcely ever asks a question she doesn’t already know the answer to.

“I killed multiple people, that was part of it,” she says. “There was other stuff too, though. Like arson.”

“Gin-Gin.”

“No.”

“Ginsey-pie.”

“No.”

“Vera?”

“Where’d you even get that? No. Too random.”

“It’s, like, Vir-a, but, like, it sounds better.”

“Eh.”

“Ugh, fine. Uh…Virgo?”

“I’m a Capricorn.”

“You have the personality of a Virgo, though.”

“I mean, I know, but I’m a Capricorn. It doesn’t work if it’s a lie.”

“What are you doing,” Lori deadpanned, popping up between them.

“Trying to come up with a new nickname for Ginny,” Krista said, blowing a bubble with the gum she’d stolen off Claudia earlier. It didn’t get very big before it popped, Krista wasn’t very good at them. “Everyone calls her Ginny, so it’s boring, and Virginia is an old-lady name, so she needs something for boyfriends to call her. Like, something cute.”

“Why are you coming up with it, then?” Lori asked, sounding exasperated. It was too dark to see if her expression matched.

“Because I don’t date guys smarter than me, so none of them are any good at nicknames,” Ginny told her. “Is everyone asleep yet?”

“I think so,” Lori muttered. “I think we should wait a few minutes, just in case.”

Ginny nodded, beaming at her even though Lori probably couldn’t see it. The three of them were sitting in the treehouse that their English teacher’s husband, Mr. Klein, had built for their two children, both of whom had moved out years earlier. The treehouse had stood empty ever since.

Now it was nothing but a flammable hideout to a group of teenage girls that Mrs. Klein had failed for absolutely no reason at all.

Or, well, Krista totally hadn’t done, like, half of the homework assignments, but Ginny wasn’t going to point that out. She was a supportive best friend, so she just listened and nodded along when Krista complained about her terrible grades.

And then Mrs. Klein had screwed Ginny over even worse, even though Ginny actually did do all the work for her class. It was unfair and stupid, so here they were, lighting the Kleins’ home on fire in the middle of the night.

And Lori was here too, because Mrs. Klein had taken points off her essay for not citing the proper sources, even though she had cited them, she just forgot to label everything properly, which wasn’t even a requirement.

“You’re the best, Lori,” Ginny sang out, careful not to raise her voice too high. “Krista thought you’d be boring about this, but I knew better. You’re fun. The good type of fun. Can you believe Krista wanted to bring Monique?”

“What’s even your deal with her?” Lori asked Krista skeptically. “She’s such a bummer sometimes. And her parents are so weird. Why’s she even hang out with us?”

“Because Ginny’s paranoid,” Krista said under her breath. Ginny’s head twisted around to glare at her.

“Shut up, I feel bad for her,” Ginny hissed. “Stop acting like you can read my mind.”

Krista huffed. Ginny was pretty sure she rolled her eyes. “You know I’m right. Monique says you literally told her once. When that bitch from Saint Peter’s dumped her soda on Monique’s hair at that one match and you flipped out, remember?”

Ginny gritted her teeth together. That been a special circumstance. No one else had heard the word the girl had muttered before she overturned her cup, and Ginny didn’t bother repeating it until that night, when she was in the middle of a screaming match with her mother about the call from the school.

She’d earned herself a pat on the back and an approving smile from her father once she’d explained herself. Attagirl, Ginny, he’d told her warmly, and she’d beamed up at him. Don’t listen to those stupid teachers, you stood up for your own.

Fortunately, Monique had understood, interpreting the gesture exactly as it was meant, thanking Ginny sincerely but privately, and presenting a united front to the teachers, who’d kept harping on about the girl’s broken nose, fractured hairline, and concussion.

Luckily, the only people who had looked up fast enough to see when Ginny slammed the girl’s skull into the metal of the bleachers were Monique and Krista, both of whom had gone along with Ginny’s insistence that she’d only shoved the girl backwards, and the injuries had only been obtained when the girl tripped and stumbled, falling completely on her own.

Unfortunately, Krista seemed to take this as proof that Ginny did care for Monique after all, and had not shut up about it since. Like, it’d been months. The girl from Saint Peter’s was out of the hospital by now, and she wasn’t even bothering Ginny this much about it, although that was probably because she had a teensy little bit of memory loss from the head trauma and didn’t remember anything about the incident. That had been surprisingly convenient.

“Enough about Monique,” Ginny said, in the voice she used when she was done talking about something. “We’ve got a job to do, girls.”

“That’s right,” Lori agreed, seemingly eager to clear the sudden tension. “I think we can go now.”

“Okay,” Ginny said, getting to her feet and grabbing the jacket she’d been sitting on to avoid directly touching the ancient, probably rotting wood. Really, she was doing the Kleins a favor by getting rid of it.

She pulled a pack of matches out of the jacket’s pocket, throwing it over her shoulder before she started to climb down the ladder, Krista following right above her.

Lori joined them thirty seconds later, lugging the container of gasoline she’d stolen from her father a few days earlier. She poured some at the roots of the tree, and then hurried over to where Krista was wiggling the window of the Kleins’ kitchen open.

“Hurry up,” Ginny hissed, striking a match. It caught on the first try, and she took a deep breath, inhaling the smoke. It smelled like victory, and it tasted like freedom when she put it out on her tongue.

“Oh my god, stop doing that,” Lori whisper-yelled. “It’s so creepy.”

Ginny shrugged. She’d spent years figuring out how to put lit matches in her mouth without getting burnt, a large portion of the time spent without working taste buds, but she still thought it was worth it. It made her feel insanely cool, and it made her look absolutely insane. Exactly what she wanted.

“Is it open?” she asked. Krista gave her a thumbs-up and stepped back to give Ginny room to jump onto the windowsill and slip inside. She barely made a sound as she landed in a crouch, before glancing around. Once she’d determined it was safe, she straightened up, and began her work, stuffing gasoline-soaked rags Krista passed her inside the oven, turning every heat source on as high as it would go, even finding a kitchen torch in a cabinet and plugging it in.

Once she was satisfied, she lit another match, tossing it inside the oven. She hurried over to the window, grabbing Krista’s hands and pulling herself back out.

“Back,” Lori whispered, holding the now-empty container that she’d been instructed to dump out around the house and inside wherever she could. “Time to go?”

“One last thing,” Ginny said, and carefully set another flaming match on one of the tree’s larger roots. She craned her neck back, looking at the soon-to-be ash tree house, and grinned.

“Now, let’s scram,” she told Lori and Krista, who took off towards the fence, pausing only to boost Ginny over. She could climb it, of course, but her limbs were considerably shorter than theirs and they didn’t have time to wait. As the three of them sprinted away from the Kleins’ house, pulling up their hoods to cover their faces as well as they could, they could hear the smoke alarm began to blare.

“Oh, what if we get caught?” Lori worried once they’d reached Ginny’s house, having slowed down once they were a few blocks away. Ginny’s mother was home, but she hadn’t even bothered to come out and greet them, just yelled for them to be quiet. A good thing, since all of them probably stuck of gasoline and smoke. Krista had grabbed the extra clothes she’d left there earlier, and gone to shower, leaving Lori and Ginny alone in Ginny’s room.

“We won’t,” Ginny told her confidently. “I never get caught.”

“What do you mean?” Lori asked. “How often do you do this?”

“Fires? Oh, this is a first,” Ginny said happily. “But, like…I have done so much other shit. And all I’ve ever gotten is suspension for the Saint Peter’s bitch.”

“Wasn’t that an accident?” Lori checked.

“Of course it was,” Ginny confirmed, giving her a bright smile. “I mean, I didn’t actually feel bad, but it was an accident. Obviously. I’m, like, half her size.”

“Yeah,” Lori agreed, but her voice was slightly quieter. “Hey, Ginny?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember Joanna McCann?”

Ginny’s smile dropped. She let herself fall backwards, so that she was lying on the floor, staring up at her ceiling. Krista’s painted flowers almost looked like they were waving to her. “Yeah. Why?”

“Dunno. That was seriously freaky,” Lori said. She was sitting cross-legged next to Ginny. They hadn’t wanted to risk making any of Ginny’s things smell like the fire, so they’d banished themselves to the floor until they’d had a chance to shower.

Ginny would wash the floor later. She’d just throw their clothes away, probably. In either a store bathroom trash can or somewhere in one of the nearby towns. She wasn’t stupid enough to dump the clothes anywhere that could be traced back to her.

She’d had plenty of practice, after all. Almost nothing was as hard to cover up as someone might assume. So long as there was a trail, it could be covered.

“Yeah,” Ginny agreed.

“You watched her die, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Didn’t even have the chance to dump anything on her dress.”

“So you were still planning on that?”

Ginny frowned, turning her head in Lori’s direction. “Duh. What, you thought I’d just let it go? It’s me we’re talking about. No one gets anyway with anything.”

“Right,” Lori said, nodding. She was being annoying moody. And to think Ginny had been nice enough to call her fun. Next time, she’d invite Claudia or Lindsey. “I guess a lot of weird things just happen here. Like Spencer. I’ve been meaning to ask, how are you doing? Like, he was your boyfriend, and now he’s been missing for months.”

“Haven’t thought about it, honestly,” Ginny admitted.

“How?” Lori asked quietly. “How could you forget?”

“What choice do I have?” Ginny said, improvising. “If they haven’t found him yet, I doubt they’re ever going to. I’m moving on with my life.”

“It’s only been a few months. I mean, I know you were talking about boyfriends earlier, but…”

“Yeah, well,” Ginny said. “Life goes on.”

“Yours, anyway,” Lori muttered.

“And yours,” Ginny added. Lori didn’t respond.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ginny asked, after a few minutes had passed. “You’re being super weird.”

“Spencer blamed you for the suspension,” Lori said, and in that split second Ginny’s entire body tensed up. Her legs were no longer the slightest bit tired from their escape earlier. Her mind was perfectly clear.

To an observer, she looked exactly the same as she had before she’d caught on to where Lori was going with this.

“Really?” Ginny asked carefully. “He never made it to my house. He disappeared sometime after he asked me if he could come over.”

“He said he was going to dump you,” Lori said. “I heard him talking to a few of his friends. I was going to call you and warn you but I got caught snooping and forgot about it. He was coming here to dump you and he never came back.”

“What are you saying, Lori,” Ginny said. The words made it sound like a question. But it wasn’t.

“Did you kill Spencer?” Lori asked, and Ginny burst out laughing.

“Lori, really,” she giggled. She pulled herself to her feet, still smiling as she walked out of the room. “He was over six feet tall? How would I even manage that?”

“Oh,” Lori said, then groaned. “Oh my god, that’s so stupid. I’m sorry! I know you’d never, ohmigod that was so rude of me!”

“Don’t worry about it, babes,” Ginny called back, grabbing two mugs from the kitchen. She poured apple cider into them, and then, after a moment of consideration, some bourbon from above the fridge. Ginny glanced back to make sure Lori hadn’t followed her before pulling a small vial out of her back pocket and emptying the contents out into one of the mugs.

She picked the mugs back up, sighing to herself. She’d really been hoping she’d get some rest after this, but whatever. There probably wouldn’t be school tomorrow anyway, not now.

Ginny walked back to her room, squatting down to offer Lori one of the mugs. In the next room, the sound of Krista showering would be enough drown out anything her mother might overhear.

“Thanks, you’re a doll,” Lori sighed, taking a large sip. “Oh. Job well done, huh?”

“Something like that,” Ginny agreed, her smile widening.

Vox doesn’t say anything. He’s still not confident that he won’t glitch if he tries, so he doesn’t, just continues running his clawed fingers through Velvette’s hair, keeping them curled just enough not to break her skin.

He doesn’t really need to bother; Velvette is smooth and cold to the touch, some odd mix of porcelain and plastic, but the gesture is nice, he thinks. She seems to appreciate it anyway. Which is good. He doesn’t want her to move off him again, he likes this. Their closeness. Her weight on his chest reminds him of a house cat, almost.

Or perhaps a child, curled into his arms, finding safety within his embrace as he’s warmed by the trust and love he receives.

It’s a silly thought. Velvette may be younger than him, but this is Hell. They’ll live forever, the three of them, unless something comes along to stop them, and in a few centuries the gap between Velvette and Vox will be as meaningless as it would be if they were born seconds apart. It matters now, a little, but it matters a lot less when you consider how quickly that will change.

Besides, while he’s never had sex with her, their relationship has never been completely platonic. Definitely not appropriate for a father and child, and that’s one line Vox refuses to cross.

Val has crossed it, many times, and Vox found it disturbing at first but now he wonders if Valentino’s casualty with parent-child incest is just because of how used he is to catering to every kink imaginable, or if it’s because he never had parents in the first place.

It’s hard to understand the sanctity of something you’ve never known, Vox supposes. Either way, he decides to keep thinking of Velvette as a cat using him for warmth. It’s not too unrealistic, he understands Earth cats enjoy lying on electronics for their warmth, and with all of his barely-restrained anger and anxiety, Vox’s fans are working overtime.

Velvette wraps her arms around his check, pressing a kiss to the edge of his face, the plastic surrounding his screen. She takes care not to get lipstick anywhere that’ll mess with his vision, and he hugs her gently and pretends he believes she’s only doing this to protect her phone.

Velvette loves him. She always has, and now Vox is almost tempted to ask if it’s because she had problems with her father, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to mess this up. It’s rare he gets to feel her love so clearly, without it being hidden beneath a fake personality and fake nails, without being lied to and belittled and ordered around. Without any reason but a halfhearted excuse that he’ll blow up her phone.

He’s pretty sure he wasn’t messing with her service in the first place, she just wanted an excuse to be close to him again. She’d looked lonely, on the other end of the couch, leaning against a pillow instead of a Television Demon.

Valentino, per usual, is oblivious to Vox’s contentment. “So…how’d it go?”

“Both the Kleins died,” Velvette says, resting her chin on her hands to it doesn’t dig into Vox’s chest. “Their house burned down to nothing but ashes, we didn’t have great firefighters. Lori’s half-burned body was discovered in the wreckage of the fallen treehouse, along with a partially-melted container that smelled of gasoline. It was ruled that she’d tried to burn down their house as revenge for her poor grades and died in the process.”

“How exciting,” Valentino tells her proudly. “You almost put us to shame, chica. Even I didn’t directly kill anyone until I was a proper adult, and we all know Sparky was a goody-goody.”

Vox considers responding to the nickname, which Val only uses when Vox is glitching out at something, but it isn’t worth the effort. He’s starting to calm down, and he doesn’t think Val is actually capable of setting him off on a large enough scale to cause problems, but it’s not worth the potential humiliation of not being able to get a word out.

You didn’t get caught?

Velvette glances up at the small burst of harmless static energy he pulses through her to get her attention, eyes falling on the words written on his screen. “No,” she says. “I don’t get caught.”

It’s a lie, clearly. She’s young. If she was never caught, she’d be a grown woman in her thirties. Maybe she’d be married, maybe she’d have kids, but probably not. Would she have moved away, distancing herself from her crimes? Most likely, eventually it all would’ve become too suspicious. He can’t imagine she would’ve given up her habitual crimes, but then again, people change. Everyone is constantly changing, up until the day they die.

And then they never change again. Not truly.

“Your turn, Valentino,” Velvette says abruptly, before Vox has a chance to ask another question. Just as well, anyway. He doesn’t even know where he’d start.

“Well, then,” Valentino smirks. “What do you want to know?”

Vel doesn’t answer, so Vox lifts his head up, just a bit. There is something he’s slightly curious about.

“You didn’t care about Raymond or Roy,” Vox says. “Or Julie. Or most people. But what about your other friend? Scott?”

“Scott was different,” Valentino says, and for the first time his voice is slightly guarded. “There are…always exceptions.”

“Like me and V,” Velvette says. “We’re the only ones you bother treating like people.”

Valentino shrugs, but his upper arms are busy mixing him something from a few bottles the robot brought him, so he does it with his lower set instead. It’s odd to watch, but it’s telling at the same time, because drawing attention to the place his secondary arms connect to his torso is something Val avoids at all costs, like with Velvette and her elbows, Vox and…well, Vox hides a lot of things about himself, but the point is Valentino’s entire brand is modeled around sexiness, and his second shoulders (?) are not sexy in the slightest.

But there’s no one here, no one but the three of them, so Val doesn’t bother covering them with his wings like usual, and he shrugs with them.

It makes Vox almost sad, for a moment, because they’re alone and Val is shrugging with his lower shoulders but Velvette is still wearing her long gloves and Vox…

Vox doesn’t like going into the details of how his demon form works. All Valentino and Velvette know is that the amount of organic material that makes him up has been steadily decreasing throughout the years. Val thinks it’s because tech is stronger, Vox doesn’t know what Velvette thinks, but the truth is there aren’t enough actual cells for his flesh wounds to stitch themselves back together with any sort of speed. His current test run, a thin scratch on his thigh, has been there for three months and still starts trickling a mix of oil and blood whenever he stretches in the wrong direction.

No one needs to know he’s that weak.

“Was he our predecessor?” Vox asks.

“In a way,” Valentino allows. “He was never quite on your level of fun, much less babydoll’s.”

Velvette laughs. “No one beats Ginny Campbell, bitches.”

It could be an awkward moment, maybe, but none of them seem to want it to be, so it isn’t.

“Certainly not anyone named Oscar,” Vox says with a smirk. Valentino flips him off with all four hands.

“Like you’re talking, Victor,” he says nastily, and Vox ignores the jolt that hearing his old name sends through him. It’s better than his first name, at least.

Being called Victor used to fill him with a strange sort of happiness, something he couldn’t find anywhere else.

He can’t quite remember when that happiness started to fade away.

“Sure, sure, Ozzie-baby,” he retorts. “Hey, didn’t you make Angel Dust pretend you were Asmodeus once?”

“Oh my god, you’re right, he did,” Velvette realizes gleefully. “Ugh, my followers would love this.”

“No,” Valentino hisses. Literally. Red spittle flies out from his mouth. Velvette wrinkles her nose.

“Relax,” she says dismissively. “It’s whatever. I still had the best name.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Victor,” Vox objects.

“Not for a given name,” Velvette says. “But that’s what you chose? Cringe.”

“It was the twenties,” he groans. “Victor was a cool name back then.”

“Okay, boomer,” she says doubtfully.

He’s nowhere near being a boomer. Too old. Valentino is just barely a boomer and Vox is two generations older, part of the Greatest generation, it’s called. A stupid name, in his opinion, he’d much rather have been born in modern times, when he could’ve gotten properly married to someone who loved who for who he really was and lived as a man without abandoning his family.

He doesn’t understand why anyone would want to stay in those times. Alastor, with his refusal to accept any tech created more than ten years after his death, makes absolutely no sense to Vox, who has multiple memories of being sent to white-only stores on errands by Alastor and his mother. He remembers how aggravated Alastor was every single time he came to Vox, bristling and embarrassed, with money and a list. How more than one of their colleagues had mysteriously disappeared after making a snide comment towards Alastor or laughing after not-so-accidentally spilling something on him. Does Alastor not remember?

Vox wishes he was a boomer. He wishes he lived to a time he makes every freshly-dead employee of theirs describe to him, one where he’d be able to have everything he’d ever wanted. Even if he was elderly by then, he’d have taken it. He’d take whatever he could have, anything other than a reluctant wife who only loved him when he was lying and a family that didn’t just consist of an old woman he wasn’t related to and her adult son. 

But none of that is helpful, or even that relevant, so Vox doesn’t respond.

“Scott thought it sounded stupid too,” Valentino remarks, then laughed. “Or, he did until he went fully deaf.”

“Did you learn sign language?” Vox asks. It’d be useful if he did. Vox knows in it the same abstract way that Vox knows everything, because everything there is to know is on the VoxNet and Vox is the VoxNet. He’s downloaded everything he managed to access off Earth’s internet and onto Hell’s servers, so there are essentially no gaps in his knowledge.

Valentino has informed him that Voogle Translate is terrible, and listening to Vox put a Spanish accent filter on is even worse than when he doesn’t bother changing his voice at all. But sign language is different. If worst comes to worst, Vox can just display a picture of the sign on his face.

“Some,” Val says. “I’ve forgotten most of it. It’s a pity, my arms really would’ve come in handy back then. Do you have any idea how hard it is to fuck someone properly when they need their hands completely free to say anything?”

“No,” Vox tells him honestly, slightly sorry he asked.

“Wait, you fucked him?” Velvette checks. “You said he was an exception legit five seconds ago.”

“So is Voxy,” Valentino says with a lazy smirk. He blows a heart made of red smoke in Vox’s direction. “And I’d fuck you if you’d let me, babydoll.”

“You’re too tall,” she says critically. “Like, the tall/smoll dynamic is one thing, but it wouldn’t work out logistically. I don’t like being that much smaller than someone, it’s an ick.”

Vox can see the logic in that, but Valentino heaves a loud, disappointed sigh.

“You know where to find me when you change your mind,” he reminds her, before moving on. “But I didn’t actually fuck Scott for a while.”

“Let me guess, you manipulated him into getting you what you wanted before tricking him into bed and acting like you were just going along with what he wanted and it was purely your generosity, and then convincing him he needed to repay you until he was fully trapped in a circle of debt and desperation, completely convinced that he needed to give you anything you wanted unless he wanted to be a terrible person?”

“Voxy!” Valentino says happily. It sounds almost like praise. “You know me so well.”

“I thought you called him special,” Velvette points out. It sounds almost like an accusation. “Like us.”

“Well, he was,” Valentino says, unbothered. “And then he wasn’t. People change, you know. But he was good for a while.”

“I can’t.”

“Just fuckin’ do it.”

“No. I can’t. Look at her, I can’t talk to a girl like that.”

“Pretty sure you can.”

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“No—“

“Just do it and quit moanin’,” Oscar interrupted, watching absentmindedly as Scott spun his fork in circles. They were sitting in a booth at some sub-par diner that just so happened to employ Walter’s dream girl and future wife.

Personally, Oscar thought the whole thing was downright pathetic, seeing as Walter hadn’t made a single attempt to get a date with her in the three weeks since he’d started dragging them here, but he figured it probably would cause unnecessary problems if he pointed that out. At least if Raymond was busy unsuccessfully trying to get Walter a girlfriend, he didn’t have as much time to complain about his dead brother. Oscar had run out of fake grief over Roy’s suicide about five seconds after he’d heard the news.

“See, listen to Oscar,” Raymond pressed on, the blithering idiot that he was. “He’s the expert, aintcha, Oz?”

“I’m something all right,” Oscar agreed, mentally debating whether or not he’d gain anything from eating the sugar packets. His aunt had stopped giving him any pocket money a year ago, since apparently sixteen was old enough to provide for yourself, and he didn’t have anything to buy food with. The only time he got anything at the diner was when Scott decided to buy him a drink.

Oscar wouldn’t let Raymond or Walter buy him anything; he knew they didn’t really want anything but to feel good about themselves, but it wasn’t like that with Scott. Scott genuinely cared about him. Scott wanted to take care of him.

Privately, Oscar was beginning to doubt Scott’s sexuality, but it didn’t matter much. If he eventually wanted to fuck, Oscar was fine with that. It wasn’t like Oscar wasn’t half a queer himself, and Scott was handsome enough. It’d make it a fair transaction, anyway, which would help with the inevitable unease Oscar got whenever Scott paid for his dinner or casually mentioned how he was getting rid of old clothes in case Oscar wanted any of them.

It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like Oscar was too good for handouts; the opposite was true. It was that so far Scott got nothing in return. He didn’t need the companionship; both of them had plenty of friends. He didn’t ask any more of Oscar than of anyone else. Oscar’s current theory was that it was an subtle way to guarantee Oscar kept up learning sign language, since as far as he could tell Scott’s hearing was almost entirely gone, but the generosity had started before Scott had gotten sick at all, back before the whole near-death ordeal that ended with Scott’s parents too poor to afford any treatment except waiting to see if it got better.

It hadn’t, obviously. Scott’s hearing only got worse as the years went by.

And that was another thing! Scott’s family couldn’t afford any sort of treatment or specialists to prevent their only son from going completely deaf before his eighteenth birthday. So why would Scott waste the small amount of pocket change he received on Oscar? Walter had more money than both of them and Raymond put together, and he wasn’t spending it on Oscar’s soda.

Not that Oscar would’ve let him. But he hadn’t ever tried, so he didn’t know that.

Did Scott think Oscar was some sort of child that needed protection? Oscar wasn’t the one who needed to stop and stare at someone’s mouth to understand some of what they said. Oscar wasn’t the one starting to get a weird sort of accent (apparently, if you went too long without hearing your voice, it started to go a bit weird) that no one else had. Oscar wasn’t the incapable one here.

“What if she’s already seeing someone?” Walter hissed, leaning over the table.

“Then you’ll feel like an idiot,” Oscar told him. “But you’ll feel like even more of an idiot the longer you spend here trying to talk to her.”

Walter paused, seemingly thinking it over, and for a moment Oscar almost thought he might finally get to enjoy his afternoon before Walter drew back and vehemently shook his head.

“Can’t,” he said stubbornly. “I just need a minute.”

Oscar stared at him, genuinely wondering if it was possible for someone’s head to explode with pure frustration.

“That’s it,” he snapped, tapping Scott’s shoulder. “Get up. I’m getting out.”

Scott’s head whipped up, and he glanced between the three of them. “What?”

Oscar hesitated. He could go with Walter’s usual method, which was to repeat himself over and over, louder and louder, until Scott finally got it. There was Raymond’s, which was making vague, seemingly meaningless gestures, which rarely worked. Or he could take the easy way out.

The easy way out made him look downright ridiculous, but needs must.

Move, Oscar signed, trying to keep his movements as small as possible. W-A-L-T girl. Won’t talk. I will fix.

Scott snorted, rolling his eyes, and got up. “It’s been three weeks,” he complained. Show him how it’s done, O-Z.

Oscar nodded, sliding down the booth and climbing out. Walter, who was boxed in by Raymond, gave him a horrified look.

“Oscar,” he whispered furiously. “What are you doing. Ray, shove over.”

Oscar glared at Raymond, who shook his head.

“This is pathetic,” Raymond said. “No.”

“Ray,” Walter groaned. Scott sat back down.

For him or you? he signed, giving Oscar a questioning look. Oscar smirked.

You’ll see, he replied, before turning and scanning the restaurant for the waitress, heading in her direction.

“Hello,” he called, giving her his best smile, quickly glancing down to her nametag, “Susan. Oh, that’s a lovely name. Reminds me of flowers.”

“It’s not a flower name,” she pointed out, hand on her hip.

“Must just be you, then,” he said. “I imagine you hear this all the time, but it’s simply good manners to acknowledge beauty where you find it, don’t you think?”

“Fancy yourself a charmer, then?” Susan asked. She was still there, no longer paying any attention to the other waitress who’d been chatting with her, which was a good sign. Another was how the other girl slipped off almost immediately, giving Susan a thumbs-up Oscar probably wasn’t meant to see.

“I’m many things,” he told her. “A good friend among them. You see my friend there, the one in the corner with the light hair?”

“The one that always make the other fella order for him when I come over? Who’s starin’ at you like ya ran his dog over?”

“That’s the one,” Oscar confirmed. “Walter. He’s got a bit of a thing for you, but if you ask me, he’s not much of a looker.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Susan agreed. “But if that’s so, what’re you doing here?”

“Well, I’ve been listening to him fawn over you for weeks now,” Oscar explained casually. “He’s right about your looks, of course, but I’m not sure how he’s managed to come to any conclusions on your personality, what with your nonexistent interactions. So I figured I’d better run a few tests.”

“You askin’ me out for yourself?” she checked, cheeks going pink. She was plain-looking, which is how he’d known a few simple appearance-based compliments would be so effective, but when she blushed she was quite a bit prettier. Oscar was beginning to think he might find this enjoyable, even without the pleasure he was going to get from getting yet another potential Mrs. Walter Howard on his arm.

Walter hadn’t caught on to Oscar’s habit of stealing any girl he showed an interest in, and he probably wouldn’t ever, but even if he did, Oscar wouldn’t apologize. He’d been the one that said Oscar needed to start doing something other than smoking cigarettes once in a while. Even if he’d only said it in an attempt to get Oscar on the school’s basketball team, Oscar couldn’t be blamed for taking his advice. 

“No,” he told her, leaning closer. “I’m asking if you’ve got any plans after your shift, and if so, when you get off.”

“Two hours,” she told him with a pleased smile. “You gonna pick me up?”

“What kind of man would a girl like you walk anywhere?” he said in lieu of an answer and walked back to his table, brushing the back of his hand against her skirt in a way that could’ve been explained away easily if the need arose.

“Bad news, Walt,” Oscar announced, waiting for Scott to move. “She’s not interested.”

“You asked her?” Walter demanded.

“Whaddya think he was doin’?” Raymond groaned. “Good one, Oz.”

Oscar nodded, getting back in the booth. When Scott sat down next to him, he tapped Oscar’s shoulder.

“Oscar,” Scott said. Oscar titled his head the way Scott always did when he was signing a question. Date?

Oscar sniggered. Yes. No tell.

Scott shrugged. Won’t.

Good? Oscar questioned after a moment. Scott looked almost miserable, for some reason.

You like her? Scott signed hesitantly.

Oscar shook his head. Get back at W-A-L-T.

Scott nodded, looking oddly relieved. That was unusual, Oscar noticed. It deserved further thought, but later.

“Can we go now?” Oscar asked. “No sense in wallowing in your misery, eh?”

“Please,” Raymond added. “Doncha wanna have a little fun, Walt?”

“I guess,” Walter said miserably. “This is terrible, I’m never going to get a steady girl. I’m going to be alone forever!”

“Steady isn’t everything,” Oscar pointed out. “Not much fun, y’know.”

“When’ve you ever gone steady with anyone?” Raymond objected loudly. A bit too loudly. There’d be no satisfaction in stealing Walter’s flight of fancy if Susan skipped out on the date, as girls tended to do whenever they realized he wasn’t even mildly interested in any sort of long-term arrangement.

“I’ll try anything once,” Oscar told him, more quietly. “Remember Matilda Walker?”

“That lasted a week,” Walter said derisively.

“So? That was long enough, believe me. She wanted so much attention, and all the time. She wouldn’t leave me alone for longer than a minute! It was positively exhausting.”

“Only you would find a doting girlfriend annoying,” Walter told him glumly. “Lemme guess, she wouldn’t let you talk to anyone else and that bothered ya too?”

“Yeah,” Oscar admitted. “So fussy.”

“Oscar?” Scott called, his voice just a bit too loud, the word slurred just a bit more than normal. When Oscar glanced over at him, he started to sign. Will you never get—then?

Oscar tilted his head to the side. Second-to-last word?

M-A-R-R-I-E-D. Married.

He shrugged. Maybe. Maybe not. Why?

I was thinking. You want to leave, right?

Interesting. Oscar probably should’ve been wary of where this was going, but he was bored. Yes.

So do I. But I can’t.

It was true. Oscar wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about it. Scott couldn’t understand people talking to him anymore, and unless he was smart, he wouldn’t have an easy time getting a job.

And all of them had spent too much time skipping class behind the school to smoke cigarettes to be considered scholarly.

We could stay—, Scott continued. Split costs.

Stay? Oscar copied. Scott paused, then repeated the sign Oscar hadn’t understood. Oscar nodded.

T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R. Together.

“Can you stop with that?” Raymond complained. “Just ‘cause me’n Walt didn’t bother learning Scott’s secret code…”

“Quit moaning,” Oscar muttered under his breath. “None of your business, Preston.”

“Oh, nothing’s ever my business,” Raymond snapped. “Huh, Oz?”

“Your words,” Oscar retorted.

Scott’s head was jerking around as he tried to lip-read their conversation. Raymond noticed him, and rolled his eyes, covering his mouth with a hand.

“Why do you even bother keeping him around anymore?” Raymond demanded. Scott, with a startling level of an awareness, had finally seemed to realize the hostility clearly directed at him. He was glowering at Raymond. “He’s fucking useless. Can’t even talk right anymore.”

Oscar looked at him. He went over his options.

“Are you queer for him or something?”

Oscar shook his head. He raised his hands, wiggling his fingers.

“Figures Scott would be a queer,” Walter chimed in. “Dunno about Oz, though.”

Oscar caught Scott’s eyes. He nodded towards Walter and began to sign.

Figures S-C-O-T-T would be a Q-U-E-E-R, Oscar repeated. Don’t know about O-Z, though.

“You’d better watch your fucking mouth, Walter,” Scott spat out, getting to his feet.

“Really?” Walter groaned. “Shut up, you idiotic—“

Scott gave Oscar an expectant look. And Oscar, ever the loyal friend, began to translate.

———

“So that was the end of them?” Velvette asks.

“More or less,” Valentino agrees. “Saved me from pretending to care about Roy, so it wasn’t much of a loss.”

“They weren’t exceptions,” Vox mutters. Mostly to himself. “Fair enough. So you went along with Scott?”

“Why not? My aunt was dead by the time I graduated, and her son inherited the house,” Valentino tells him. “And he hated me. Didn’t have a lot of options, Sparky. Not all of us can charm our rival’s mother into letting us stay.”

“The OG yo mama,” Velvette remarks absently. She reaches out and taps Vox’s screen, and he pulls up her most frequently used games, both on her phone and tablet, arranged by how much time she spends on them daily. She gives a pleased hum and selects one of her favorites, some bottle sort puzzle that’s been especially popular recently. Her choice pleases him, mostly because he’s observed that this game’s primary function is to give the player something to do with their hands, not to take up their attention. If she’s playing this, she’s still interested in their little game.

“You’re just jealous,” Vox tells Valentino. He’d smirk if he currently had a face.

Valentino makes a disgruntled noise. He used to tell Vox that it was weird how he could still talk without a mouth (weirder that he could get rid of his mouth in the first place, but that made sense considering how it wasn’t exactly a mouth to begin with) but now he’s too blind to be certain whether or not Vox hasn’t just shoved his mouth up or down, and he can’t make comments without risking looking like an idiot. (Vox usually doesn’t bother with that because he doesn’t need a mouth, but he does every so often to screw with him.)

It’s also apparently disturbing how Vox can see without visible eyes, but he’s pretty sure that’s entirely Valentino’s bitterness over his own steadily worsening sight. The only reason Vox bothers with maintaining a face at all is because it makes him look more approachable and friendly, which helps with product sales and marketing.

He also can’t exactly use the hypnosis program he designed without some sort of image, so there’s that. He could apply it to anything, of course, but he’s found people are less wary of the swirling patterns when they assume it’s a natural part of his demon anatomy.

He’s pretty sure Alastor is the only one who knows it isn’t, actually, and that’s just because he was around before Vox developed it.

“Oh, please,” Val huffs. Vox likes him best like this, when he’s just annoyed enough to drop the flirtatious act but not annoyed enough to start throwing things. Honesty without property destruction.

The bar is really on the floor. Still, it’s always nice when it’s met.

“I haven’t had to do my taxes in decades,” Valentino reminds him. “Or pay for my clothes. Or pay for anything, really. And that’s all because of you, papito.”

Velvette laughs. “He’s got you there, babes. Turn the brightness down a bit?”

Vox obliges instantly, turning on the same settings he uses around Valentino when he’s hungover.

“Why’d you get rid of Scott?” Vox asks, and Valentino frowns.

“Because he was so ungrateful,” he complains. “After everything I did for him, after I defended him, supported him, provided for him until he could get a job himself!”

“He figured out you were manipulating him and ran?”

“Well, you don’t have to say it like that.”

Vox ignores his pouting. “If you did all that, why bother with him at all?”

Val sniffs, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Because there was nowhere good to live that I would’ve been allowed to rent without a white boy signing the lease, tú gringo. I was pale enough for my aunt to get me into a white school, but by the time I graduated, it was fairly obvious I shouldn’t have been there.”

“So you became his sugar daddy just so you could put his name on a lease?”

“Essentially,” Valentino says. “I also wasn’t the one in trouble when the bills were late.”

“You were the sugar daddy?” Velvette repeats. “Seriously?”

“Hard to believe, I know,” Val sniggers, looking exceptionally pleased with himself. “I like it this way much better.”

“I don’t,” Vox objects.

“Oh, shush, baby,” Val croons, wiggling the fingers of his lower left hand at him. “We both know that’s a lie.”

Vox looks at him, his longs limbs, his wings that he’s unwrapped from around himself and draped over the back of the couch, his lazy smirk, the red shine to his teeth, his handsome, sculpted face, his large, nearly flightless eyes, and sighs. The gust of air comes from the vents along Vox's chest, of course, and he’s discarded his usual suit in favor of a light sweater and sweatpants, so the air reaches Velvette, and she pokes him with the tips of her shoe.

He doesn’t answer Valentino. But that in itself is an answer, and he knows Val knows that when he watches the moth’s satisfied smile stretch even wider.

Vox doesn’t answer.

Instead, he says, “My turn, right?”

Dear Alma,

Hello, love, it’s been a while. I’m well, don’t you fuss, and things have been moving smoothly so far. I’m staying with a woman in Louisiana for now, her name is Ida Landry. She’s been very kind to me. Don’t fret, she’s old enough to be my grandmother, so there’s no chance of my being stolen away. My heart is yours, forever.

Her son works at the radio station nearby, apparently, he hosts one of the more popular segments, and after listening to a few broadcasts, I can’t help but agree with her praise of him. I don’t believe you’re close enough to receive it, but if you are, it’s on 89.3 FM, and his segment is on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, from six to eight in the morning and at night. He does talk quite a bit about certain… brutish topics. It’s fascinating, in an odd way, and knowing you I predict that you’ll find it interesting, but I recommend avoiding tuning in when your mother is nearby.

I understand if you can’t write me back. I expect security has tightened since my escape, and although I will of course hang off any words you can spare for me, I will not be offended if they are lacking. So long as you are still mine, Allie darling, I’ll get on just fine.

Mrs. Landry is going to ask Alastor if he can see about getting me work, so that’s good. I’ve been doing odd jobs here and there, of course, so I’m not completely penniless, but there are plenty of folks around these parts who don’t trust strangers, which I suppose is wise enough, what with the serial killer problem.

Did I mention the serial killer problem? A shocking sentence, I know, but Mrs. Landry is oddly causal about the whole matter and I must admit it’s been rubbing off on me. I have faith in my own survival, and yours, once I’ve come back for you. Alastor has repeatedly brought up the very clear pattern among the Huntsman’s victims, and if he’s to be trusted I’m in very little danger.

(And if he isn’t, I shall be investing in a gun soon anyways, so I shall be safe regardless. You remember what a good shot I was when your father taught us.)

(A good thing he believed even women should know how to defend themselves, don’t you agree?)

Mrs. Landry has seen through me, of course, but my disguise has been working rather well. It’s nice, to be treated like I’m competent for once. I adore it, quite frankly, to hear her call me ‘boy’ (she doesn’t know I’m nearly an adult, I thought it’d be more believable if I said I was younger) or for shopkeepers to call me ‘sir’ or to look at myself and see

This is a good place, Allie, with good people. Even a church, although I’m not exactly the minister’s favorite person. It’s still a good place.

I won’t bother asking you questions, because, as I said earlier, I’m not certain you’ll be able to answer them, but if you are, tell me everything . I miss you ever so much, my love, and I ache every moment we are apart. I’ll write again soon, and I’ll be punctual with our arrangement. Nothing could keep me away.

Love,

V

“Victor!”

Victor jumped up, folding his letter to Alma and shoving it into the envelope. He slipped it into the drawer of Alastor’s old desk and paused at the mirror, inspecting his appearance. His chest was flat, his short hair was trimmed into an acceptable cut for a young man, the smoothness of his neck was concealed by the collar of his shirt, and he appeared, to an observer, like any other young man.

He grinned when he saw it, out of satisfaction, of course, pleasure at his successful lies, nothing more, and then he called back, in a voice that was slightly deepened, just enough to avoid suspicion, not enough to be strange, “Coming, Mum!”

He emerged into the front room just as the man standing in the middle of the room was saying, “Mama, poukisa li rele ou konsa?”

“Sois gentil, mon fils,” Ida told him, giving him a stern look. “Li doux.”

Victor hovered awkwardly in the doorway, thrown off guard both by hearing them speak in a language he couldn’t understand and by the sight of Alastor himself.

He was tall, at least compared to Ida and Victor, with curly brown hair and eyes so dark they looked almost pitch-black. He was darker than Victor but lighter than his mother, light enough Victor wouldn’t have been surprised if his father had been a white man, as unexpected as most would've found that. He wore wire-rimmed glasses shaped like half-full moons, and underneath the jacket he was pulling off, he had on an elegantly tailored red vest and a fine white shirt, along with a red bow tie, which Victor found slightly odd but liked it very much immediately. He looked incredibly interesting, more interesting than anyone Victor had ever seen before, and the mere sight of him was enough to render Victor speechless, frozen in place.

Alastor was not even looking at him, which was a miracle because Victor’s face felt impossibly hot and he was sure he was red as a tomato. How old was Alastor, again? Had Ida ever said? Probably too old for a fifteen-year-old, but Victor’s eighteenth birthday was barely a week away, and that would make him an adult, and Alastor was an adult, so—

“And this would be your new ward, then,” Alastor said in the same hypnotizing voice Victor had spent hours listening to, but without the crackle of static from the radio. No, this was the real deal, pure, unfiltered Alastor, transatlantic accent not as strong but still present, which was both surprising and not at the same time. It made sense that he’d keep using it even if he didn’t have to, but for some reason, Victor had been expecting him to speak more like his mother.

“Go on, introduce yourself,” Ida told Victor, waving him on. “Alastor, put your coat away properly, none o’that leaving things on chairs, hear me?”

“Of course, Mama,” Alastor agreed, leaning down to kiss her cheek before hanging up his coat. When he turned back to face Victor, he was still smiling just as widely as he had been before. “Well?”

“My name is Victor Nixon,” he said quickly, desperately hoping his inner thoughts weren’t outwardly visible. From Alastor’s amused little laugh, he guessed his blush hadn’t faded in the slightest. “And you’re Alastor?”

“Alastor Landry,” the man agreed, his eyes narrowing slightly. “My mother’s told me much about you. How old are you, again?”

“Fifteen,” Victor muttered, resigned to his fate. There was no way to let Alastor know his real age without admitting his deceit to Ida, so it was probably best to give up on it now.

Belatedly, he remembered Alma, but thoughts of her seemed wholly unimportant right now, looking at Alastor.

“Fifteen,” Alastor repeated, raising his eyebrows. He was still smiling. “My mother has informed me you’re looking for work? You want me to put a good word in for you, is that it?”

Victor nodded. He couldn’t think of a response that didn’t include yes, sir, and he both did and didn’t want to see Alastor’s reaction to those words so strongly it almost hurt.

“Well, then,” Alastor continued. “Shall we discuss this outside? Just a minute, Mama, we’ll be back before you know it.”

“Oh, go on,” Ida said. “But don’t you so yon pou li.”

“Mo pas, li pa fè mal,” Alastor responded before turning and walking out, Victor following him onto the porch after a brief moment of hesitation.

“What do you want to talk about?” Victor asked nervously, fiddling with the edge of his shirt. Alastor didn’t look back, just sat down in the edge of the porch, legs dangling off.

“Sit down,” he said, and Victor did. “Are you honestly looking for a job? And don’t try to lie to me. I don’t like being lied to.”

“Yes,” Victor said earnestly. “I need work. Money. And radio fascinates me.”

Alastor turned his head, looking amused. “You’re an odd little thing, aren’t you?” he wondered out loud. “What’s your real name?”

“Victor Nixon.”

“Mm, no, it’s not. Don’t lie to me.”

“It is,” Victor repeated, not fully sure why he was insisting on this, but there was a part of him that was most of him that refused to let Alastor know his other name.

The rest of him, that small, small little piece, didn’t want to be here at all.

“Boy,” Alastor said pleasantly. He was so unbothered it was almost frightening, just how little he seemed to care. “What is your name?”

“Victor,” he insisted, gritting his teeth. “It…I changed it, but it’s my name, now. I don’t have another anymore.”

A lie. He would still keep his old name so long as he kept Alma by his side, but for some reason he wasn’t really thinking about that or her right then.

“Fine,” Alastor allowed, and Victor could tell he was displeased, but he was smiling. He hadn’t stopped smiling as long as he’d been there, Victor realized, which was slightly terrifying to think about. “What do you want with my mother?”

“Nothing,” Victor said, slightly taken aback, and then shook his head. “I mean, I find her to be a pleasant woman, and I am beyond thankful for her generosity. I want nothing beyond what I have already been offered, I promise you.”

“Hm.”

“Why don’t you trust me?”

“Why should I?” Alastor countered.

Victor shrugged. “Why not? What have I done that’s so suspicious?”

“Everything,” Alastor hissed, eyes narrowed, smile thin. “Don’t think you have me fooled, boy. If you think you can force your way into my house, take advantage of my mother’s goodwill, then listen here, you—“

Alastor cut himself off abruptly, eyes widening, and then he cackled. Victor stared at him, trying to figure out where his mind was going as Alastor continued to laugh.

The guise of a gentleman seemed to slip in that moment when Alastor was laughing; this smile no longer forced but genuine and joyful. It was beautiful, Victor thought absently, but it was ruined seconds later when Alastor finally choked out, “You’re not a boy!”

Victor blinked, anger quickly replacing any other emotion he’d felt before. “Yes, I am,” he snapped.

“No, you aren’t,” Alastor contradicted gleefully. “Oh, well, that settles things. Shall we go in, now?”

“Excuse me?” Victor argued. “What was that? Why am I suddenly trustworthy? I’m not a girl, I’m—“

“Lying,” Alastor finished for him. “And it’s harmless. Truly, Victor, I couldn’t care less what sex you belong to. But I don’t trust anyone unless I know what they’re lying about. If that’s all you’re hiding, I’ve no particular reason to dispose of you.”

The way Alastor said it, so casually, like he knew he could get rid of Victor any time he wanted, made his blood run cold.

“Oh, really?” he challenged. He wasn’t sure what he was threatening. He didn’t care. He didn’t think Alastor would actually try to hurt him. No, Victor just wanted Alastor to keep looking at him.

Looking at him like he was a mystery. An enigma. Someone interesting. Someone special.

“Really,” Alastor said quietly.

“Will you help me, then?”

“Hm…no, I don’t think so!”

Victor’s jaw fell open as he gaped at the blatant rudeness. To not even pretend he was interested in being helpful? “You bloody heathen,” he muttered under his breath. “Why not?”

“Why should I?”

“It’s the polite thing to do. At least think about it.”

“I’ve thought about it, and I can’t seem to find a single reason I should help you. What can you ever do for me?”

“You’re very different from your mother,” Victor noted. Alastor’s smile turned dangerous again.

“My mother believes in the good of people,” he said simply. “I have seen the worst of them.”

“As a radio host?”

“I have many faces.”

“I’ve never known what to make of people like you.”

“And what do you mean by that? Choose your next words very carefully.”

“Seemingly normal folks who act like they’re something tough. Something special. Because either you’re truly a maniac or you’re a liar, and I’m not very fond of either option.”

Alastor seemed pleased by that. “Oh, no one ever is, but yet they stick around anyway! I think it’s the thrill of it all, the uncertainty, the answer to a question they’re all so eager to uncover! It’s amusing, I’ll admit, to watch them struggle.”

Victor laughed. “I can see why people listen to you for hours on end.”

“And why is that?” Alastor promoted, clearly searching for praise, and Victor was all too happy to give it to him.

“You have a way of talking that makes you seem like the type of man everyone wants to know,” he said. “The type of man everyone wants to be, because he knows who he is and he loves that, he knows what he’s doing and he loves that, he’s completely put-together and perfectly satisfied.”

“Well!” Alastor said. “You do know how to flatter a fellow. Tell you what, I won’t chase you off, and I’ll help you where I can at the station.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all! You seem like you’ll be entertaining enough to make it worth the effort, young man!”

Victor crossed his arms. “That sounds awfully suspicious, you know.”

“Doesn’t it?” Alastor agreed, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “And yet it’s exactly what you’ve asked for! Isn’t that amusing?”

“For you,” Victor said.

“Well, yes,” Alastor said, as though that were painfully obvious. In his defense, it rather was. “I don’t go into the station on Saturdays. Providing you with amusement is currently Martin Hess’s responsibility. He does happen to be dreadfully boring, though, so you won’t have much luck with that.”

“You’re very strange,” Victor observed.

“So are you.”

“I’m not all that strange. I’m just…different.”

Alastor laughed. He was still smiling. It hadn’t faltered, not for a single moment. It’d changed, of course, everything changed, but Alastor had not stopped smiling since the moment Victor first saw him.

“That’s what every strange person says, my young friend,” Alastor told him merrily. “Don’t fret. Did anyone truly ordinary ever really achieve anything great?”

Chapter Text

“Tú eras tan gay,” Valentino says, and laughs. Then he pauses. “Wait, was that gay? Y’know, since you didn’t have a dick?”

Vox briefly contemplates throwing him out of a window but decides against it. Mostly because he isn’t sure whether or not Valentino’s figured out how to fly with his damaged antenna yet.  He isn’t going to buy new windows if he doesn’t know for sure that Val won’t be able to fly right back in.

A quick search of Earth’s internet tells him moth antenna can grow back, and they’re still technically capable of flight without them, even if they don’t have any sense of direction. Valentino’s don’t seem to be growing back, but he’s a demon, not an actual moth. There’s no real way for Vox to know for sure without tying him up in the basement and experimenting on him, and he can’t do that without disrupting Velvette, who would probably bite him if he stopped her game.

“That’s transphobic,” Velvette says, temporarily saving Vox the trouble of torturing Valentino. “For fuck’s sake, Val, do you know how much time I spend distracting people from all the offensive shit you say?”

“I’m from the seventies, I don’t have to be politically correct,” Val complains.

“No one wants to think about that,” Velvette snaps back. “No one cares about someone their grandpa’s age, dumbass! Stop reminding people that!”

“It’s fucking Hell!” Valentino argues, which is a fair point, Vox admits reluctantly. “Why do I have to be fucking polite? What part of Sinner do people not understand?”

“Goddamnit Valentino!” Velvette says in a very shrill voice. “Use your tiny brain for five seconds. This is Hell. We’re all dead. Most people die when they’re older. The only young people down here were killed as teenagers, since kids don’t really come here, and the top causes of death for teens are accidents, childhood illness, or suicide! Sick kids spend a lot of time on the internet, and they feel powerless for a lot of their lives, so they usually have strong opinions. Anyone dumb enough to die from drunk driving or some shit like that is typically a follower and will go after whatever controversy someone else starts. But suicide is usually because someone’s depressed, often because they’re bullied, and what groups of people have always been targets of bullying? Fucking minorities! Fuck knows if suicide’s actually a sin or not, I never read the fucking Bible, but enough of them end up here to get things moving and the last thing the Vees need is for one of us to get canceled!”

Valentino gives her a blank stare.

“A shit ton of people down here killed themselves because of people who talk the way you do, and they won’t like you if you remind them of their bullies,” Vox translates. Velvette takes understanding her audience extremely seriously, which is good, but Valentino has never been bright enough to understand her rants. Or Vox’s rants, but the only people who can understand even half of what he says are VoxTek employees, so he doesn’t bother explaining himself.

Valentino doesn’t speak for a few more seconds, and when he does, it’s, “So that was gay?”

“It was not gay, because I wasn’t into him,” Vox protests pointlessly. Velvette nods.

“It was gay,” she confirms. “And if I find anything online where you even make a hint about Vox’s gender, I will inject angelic steel into your bloodstream. Some trans celebrity died recently, and there’s been a sixty-three-percent rise in support for the LGBTQ+ community and specifically individuals who do not identify as cisgender. It would actually do good things for us if he came out, but only if he does it. If you out him, there’ll be a rise of support for him and VoxTek will probably see an increase in profits for at least one or two quarters, but your profits will take a major hit, especially considering how much of your material is mlm. You’ll look like a bigot and a hypocrite, and it’ll pull our image apart, which is not good. And on second thought, the only reason trans support was able to rise so quickly was because it was previously at an incredibly low point compared to the last few years, so it’d probably be too risky for Vox to come out. All the old guys who beat their trans kids are also here, admittedly buying less technology, but…”

Vox resurfaces from Urban Dictionary in time to see Valentino wash a few pills down with a pint glass of vodka. Which he then chugs the rest of. If he tries to take tomorrow off, Vox is going to take the lost money out of Valentino’s bank account.

“My image is fine how it is,” Vox tells Velvette, changing his screen back to his default face before she can sign out of his Sinstagram account and into her own. If she starts going over analytics again, he isn’t going to get anything out of her for at least another few days. “I don’t know which part of pretending I was always a man for over seventy years made you think I ever want to tell anyone, because I’m not going to. It doesn’t even matter anymore.”

Velvette scowls, but that’s probably just because he stopped letting her use his face as a vPad. “Chill, babe. I’m not gonna force you, even if the streak’s already broken.”

“No, it’s not?”

“You literally just told us.”

“You don’t count,” Vox says dismissively. “Weren’t we just over this?”

Val’s eyes widen. He looks at Vox. Vox looks at him.

Val smiles.

“That’s right,” he agrees, and Vox is enjoying himself the way he is and he knows he’ll regret it if he moves, but despite that, for a moment he wishes Valentino was curled up with him and Velvette, instead of sprawled out on one of the adjacent couches.

“Val,” Vox says. “Is there any chance that we could go hang out in the master bedroom without it being a sex thing? The couch is hurting my back.”

“Velvy is hurting your back,” Valentino corrects, but Vox can tell he’s considering it. “You’re like a little cat, aren’t you, baby?”

Velvette glowers at him, which, on her, looks like she’s snarling. Like a cat. Vox barely stops himself from laughing.

“Stop calling me that,” she hisses (like a cat! Vox is hilarious, he knows) at him. “It works with Vox’s name, it doesn’t with mine, we’ve been over this.”

“A nickname isn’t good because the person likes it,” Valentino says mildly, which, fair enough. Velvette really shouldn’t be complaining, considering her main nicknames for him are; dumbass, piss baby, creepy grandpa, pedo, pervert, old man, imbecile, unsuccessful abortion (Vox should probably tell her to stop using that one, seeing as it’s somewhat true), drama queen, semi-retired whore, ingrate, sentient headache, coconut head (because they’re hollow inside, which took Vox an embarrassingly long time to understand, mostly because he’s pretty sure they’re filled with water or something, but whatever), and failed hooker. Along with a few others he’s forgetting. (As much as he ever forgets anything, which is not really. He could remember if he tried, but he doesn’t feel like going back into his data logs right now.)

On second thought, those may actually just be her favorite insults.

“I will coat the inside of your pillowcase with a poisonous powder that will make you shrivel into ash if you so much as smell it, you washed-up slut.”

So that’s what he was forgetting.

Then he registers what she just said. “Uh, could that be moved to tomorrow night? He doesn’t have time to get poisoned tonight, we’ve got a…thing.”

“Stop treating your bang seshes like business meetings,” Velvette snaps. “It’s just sad.”

“I’m a very busy man,” Vox says defensively.

“With a very flimsy grasp on time,” Valentino adds.

“And he gets pissy when we don’t fuck for more than three days, and when he gets pissy he starts breaking studio equipment, and that shit’s expensive. So I’m saving money by putting it on my calendar.”

“One, wasn’t being literal about the calendar, wow you’re old,” Velvette says flatly. “Two, he breaks studio equipment all the time because he can’t handle his whores having, like, lives. Or bodily functions. Or anything that differentiates them from walking, talking sex dolls.”

“He doesn’t like them talking much either.”

“Vox, shut up. You’re just proving me right.”

“If they’d all stop being so bitchy all the time, I wouldn’t have to discipline them,” Valentino huffs. Vox winces.

“Haven’t figured out a way to stop that,” he admits. “It’s more not having to buy as much new equipment than not having to buy any.”

“I don’t see why it’s such a big deal,” Valentino says sulkily. “You’re the one who makes all of it.”

Vox briefly debates explaining to him that being the manufacturer of an item does not mean it’s free for him, given that he still pays for all of the high-quality materials that Val insists on and the team of employees whose whose sole job is to produce all the film equipment used for the pornos, but the chances that Val will listen to a single word instead of just tuning him out and taking more pills are despairingly low, so he doesn’t bother.

“Whatever,” he says instead. “Can we go to the bedroom?”

He waits to see if Val will push it. He waits for the continuation of Val and Vel’s argument. He waits for one of them to storm off.

“I wouldn’t mind a few more pillows,” he hears instead, and he watches as Valentino gets up and walks over to them, leaning over to scoop Velvette up in a bridal carry with his lower set of arms. Out of reach of his neck, Vox notes with amusement.

“Why does she get carried?” Vox asks petulantly, ignoring the part of himself that tells him he’s a man, a breadwinner, the CEO of VoxTek and the most powerful Overlord out of the Vees. He does not need to be carried around like a baby by a pimp who hasn’t paid his own bills in, what, thirty years?

“Because she’s light as a feather,” Val tells him. “Besides, I believe our little muñeca has a story she’s meant to be telling us, isn’t that right, Velvy?”

Velvette flips him off, but she doesn’t try to get free. “What do I even tell you? Like, I killed a lot of people, most of it wasn’t that interesting.”

“How’d you get away with it?” Vox asks, reluctantly getting up himself. “Especially after the first few, how did you shake that off?”

“Easy,” Velvette says distastefully. “Don’t be a fucking idiot. Why would it be me? There was, like, no evidence whatsoever.”

“Everyone you’ve told us about was connected to you in some way,” Vox points out.

“Well, because those stories are the only interesting ones,” she explains. “All the randos, that’s boring as fuck. And, I mean, I had to play nice at the funerals, obviously.”

“It’s so sad.”

“Right? So sad.”

“Like…she was a good teacher. When she wasn’t being a raging bitch.”

“Was she a good teacher?”

“I mean, she worked here for, like, years, and she wasn’t fired. So she probably was.”

“No one gets fired from here, it’s so shitty.”

“Well, yeah, but she wasn’t the worst teacher.”

“No, no. Definitely not. But, like…she was kinda a bitch.”

“Ohmigod, such a bitch.”

“Guess it’s not really so sad.”

“I mean, maybe not.”

“Her husband might’ve been okay, though. It’s sad about him. He might’ve been hot.”

“He was really ugly.”

“Really?”

“Christ, girl. There’s a photo of them together right there.”

“Wait, that one?”

“Uh, duh?”

“Oh my god, I totally thought that was Mrs. Klein with her mother.”

“Okay…I can’t even blame you, I see it.”

“Right?”

“People don’t deserve to die just because they’re ugly, though.”

“I mean…”

“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous.”

“He was probably terrible anyway! I mean, he was married to her.”

“You’ve got a good point, actually…”

“Claudia,” Ginny interjected, leaning forward and poking her shoulder. “Lindsey. Stop insulting them at their own funeral.”

“Seriously,” Krista added, even though she wasn’t really paying attention. Monique, who’d been twisted around in her chair in order to whisper to Krista, nodded, even though she probably didn’t even know what was going on. Monique just went along with things sometimes.

“Sorry,” Lindsey sighed. “It’s just, like, everyone is acting like it’s such a terrible loss. But she was old anyway.”

“No one’s even upset about Lori anymore,” Adrienne added. She was sitting next to Ginny, on the side Krista wasn’t on, as the group of them waited for the memorial service to start.

It’d been almost a week since Lori’s burnt, mangled corpse had been discovered in the wreckage of the Kleins’ house. Her funeral had been the day before.

There, Ginny had made herself cry, clutching Krista as they mourned. The two of them had curled together in a pew, sobbing as they held each other.

“Did you really have to?” Krista had sniffed, resting her head on Ginny’s shoulder to hide the movement of her lips.

“Yes,” Ginny breathed. “I wouldn’t have otherwise, Krissy. I promise.”

Krista hadn’t responded.

And today, in their same black clothes, in the same church pews, Krista whispered to Monique and barely even glanced in Ginny’s direction.

Ginny frowned.

Time for damage control, then.

“Right? Did you hear, they’re even saying Lori killed the bitch and her husband. Like, I can’t believe it,” she said bitterly, crossing her arms. “There’s no evidence. I heard Adrien tell one of his friends he thinks Lori killed Blake too, can you believe it?”

“No,” Lindsey gasped, eyes wide. “That asshole!”

“Lori was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Claudia said fervently. “She would never.”

“No,” Krista agreed. “Also, Lori’s mom is walking over here, so, like. Yeah.”

Ginny winced, leaning her head back to see Mrs. Richmond making her way up the aisle, towards them. “Right. Hello, Mrs Richmond! It’s good to see you, how are you doing?”

“Oh, hello, girls,” Mrs. Richmond said, acting surprised, like she hadn’t been heading right towards them, looking directly at them. “I’m doing as well as I could be, Virginia, I appreciate your asking.”

She wasn’t making eye contact with Ginny, which was normal enough for her, but there was half a second where Ginny wasn’t completely sure Krista was going to jump in before her best friend seemed to decide that sticking to her sulking wasn’t worth leaving them in the incredibly uncomfortable situation where none of the other girls would talk because they assumed Ginny would and Mrs. Richmond would do her best to pretend Ginny wasn’t there even if she was the only one talking.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Krista said earnestly, standing up. Ginny tucked her knees in to give Krista space to walk past, Adrienne copying her automatically. Krista opened her arms, and Mrs. Richmond hugged her tightly.

Ginny glanced back at Monique, and the two of them exchanged a look. She didn’t dare roll her eyes, because of course if she did Mrs. Richmond would magically gain the ability to notice her presence and throw a fit.

“If you ever need someone to talk to about her, we’re always here,” Krista was saying, having pulled back. “Lori was our friend. We…I wouldn’t want to overshadow your grief, of course, but we’re going to miss her too. I don’t know if it’ll help, to know you’re not the only one who misses her, but…”

“That’s very sweet of you, Krista,” Mrs. Richmond said, sniffling a little. Gross. “You’re a very good girl. My Lori thought very highly of you, s-she used to tell me all about you girls and all the fun she had. The l-last conversation I ever had with her, she was telling me how she was going to sleep over at y-yours, and I told her I’d m-miss her, and she told me she’d be back before I knew it and she wanted to have fun with her friends. S-such a good girl, my Lori, such a good girl.”

“I’m sorry,” Krista mumbled. “I-I wish…I don’t know what happened. I guess she saw the fire on her way to my house, maybe, and tried to help? It seems like something she’d do, at least. She always wanted to help people, no matter what. She was a really good friend to me.”

“It warms my heart to hear that,” Mrs. Richmond told her softly. “Thank you, Krista. I’ve got to go find my husband, but I want you to know how happy she was to be your friend. Lori…Lori loved you girls very much. Thank you for being such a good friend to her.”

Ginny watched as Krista nodded quickly, noticing the tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes. Krista always was a good actor.

Such a good actor that she didn’t move, still standing there as Mrs. Richmond walked away, staring after the crotchety old woman as she rejoined her family in the front of the church.

“I didn’t know she was sleeping over at yours, Kris,” Lindsey finally said, breaking the silence.

Krista didn’t respond.

“She wasn’t,” Ginny said, getting up. She reached for Krista’s arm, and Krista flinched away, but then Ginny reached again and this time Krista let her pull her back down into her seat. “The three of us were meant to be at mine, Lori said her father kept harping on about her bad grade in English and she wanted to get away from it, and Krista’s parents were out for the night. Lori never showed up.”

Lori always told her parents she’d be at Krista’s when she went to Ginny’s.

“Kris?” Monique asked, shooting her a worried look. Krista didn’t react even as the others girls turned to look at her, Deanna and Melanie moving forward from where they sat behind the rest of their friends.

“Kristy, Krissy,” Ginny said soothingly, moving closer and wrapping an arm around Krista’s shoulders. “There was nothing you could’ve done, honey, there was nothing any of us could’ve done. Lori made a choice, and we can’t take that back for her.”

“Is that really how you see it?” Krista finally whispered a few seconds later. Her eyes were still fixed somewhere off in the distance, on something Ginny couldn’t see.

“It’s the truth of it, Krista,” Claudia agreed. “It’s not your fault.”

Krista said nothing. Ginny bit her lip and leaned in closer to her, her lips barely an inch away from Krista’s ear, both of their hair shielding Ginny’s mouth from view.

“I did this, not you,” Ginny breathed, barely making a sound. “If you want to blame anyone, blame me.”

Krista let out a sob. “I can’t,” she hissed back, not nearly quiet enough, but that didn’t matter. No one else had heard what Ginny said, and even if they had, she’d purposely chosen words that could’ve easily meant anything else. Just as easily as Krista could’ve been talking about anything. “I could’ve—I could’ve—I could’ve stopped it, I—“

“No, you couldn’t have,” Ginny whispered. “Don’t be ridiculous, Kris. It was always going to end the same way, can’t you see that? Blaming yourself isn’t going to change anything.”

“I can’t just let it go,” Krista protested. “I—I’m sorry, Gin, I really am, but I can’t. I don’t know how and I don’t want to.”

“Then be mad,” Ginny suggested. “Be mad at me. Hate me. Scream at me and hit me and tell me you’ll never look at me the same.”

“I can’t,” Krista said, sounding broken. “I love you too much.”

Ginny smiled automatically before quickly fixing her expression. “So you forgive me?” she prompted, just as softly as before. 

“Of course I do, you stupid bitch,” Krista sniffed.

“Then it’s okay,” Ginny concluded. “See, babe? If it’s my fault and you’ve forgiven me that means it’s all okay.”

Krista looked at her, and Ginny reached out with the hand that wasn’t around her shoulders to cup Krista’s cheek, wiping away a spare tear with her thumb.

“It’s okay, Kristy,” Ginny repeated, smiling again. “Everything’s okay.”

Krista looked at her, and then she buried her head in Ginny’s shoulder and cried real tears and Ginny held her and rubbed her back as she did, murmuring comforting words, and slowly, all of their friends starting turning back to their own conversations, either giving the two of them some privacy or running out of interest.

The only one still paying attention was Monique, who was still gazing at Krista with that stupid worried expression on her face.

“Is she okay?” Monique asked.

“She’ll be fine,” Ginny answered. “She’s just sad right now. She’ll be okay.”

“So she snitched?” Valentino guesses. They’re in the master bedroom now, and surprisingly, Val hasn’t interrupted Velvette once to make a sex joke. His left arms, curled around Vox, haven’t once dipped lower than Vox’s waist.

Velvette, who had wiggled into the space between Vox and Val as soon as the latter set her down, scoffs. “As if. That bitch was my ride or die. She was just putting on a show for Lori’s bitch mom.”

“Then why were you comforting her?” Vox asks.

“Because,” Velvette says, and then she falters. Just for a second. Val probably misses it. But Vox doesn’t. Vox doesn’t miss anything. “I wasn’t sure if any of it was real. And anyway, it would’ve looked sus if I hadn’t.”

Vox would’ve probably believed that. If it weren’t for the exact words Velvette had quoted, without stumbling over a single one, not bothering to preface it with warnings of her less-than-perfect memory first.

He would’ve believed it, but if Vel really was putting on a show, she would’ve pretended she was sorry.

Instead she just tried to make her friend feel better.

When he looks up, Valentino’s red eyes meet his, close enough for him to focus on Vox. He raises an eyebrow.

Vox flashes an image of a thumbs-down at him, and he nods.

LET IT GO, Vox adds in big, bold letters, and Val narrows his eyes, but he listens.

“Let me guess,” Valentino says. “You killed that bitch mom next?”

“She croaked a few months later from some heart issue,” Velvette says. “Didn’t need to.”

“Boring,” Val complains.

“You can’t be talking, Val,” Vox reminds him. “Your only crimes at her age were being a manipulative narcissist. She’s still got both of us beat, even if she didn’t kill one batty old hag.”

Valentino squints at him, either because he thinks there’s something on Vox’s face he can’t see (despite the fact that his entire body is curled around Vox so that he can rest his head on Vox’s chest without his feet sticking off the bed) or because he’s trying to decide whether or not to be offended. Vox doesn’t give him time to figure it out.

“She’s even worse than Alastor,” he continues. “He didn’t even kill anyone until he was sixteen.”

Valentino’s eyes narrow even more. “I thought you didn’t know he was the killer until he died? How would you know the details?”

“I found out a lot about him after that,” Vox says, purposefully evasive. He doesn’t bother saying that he didn’t say anything about when he found out Alastor was a murderer. He said that Alastor died and that Vox knew he was the Huntsman. Two completely separate events.

But then again, Valentino always has been very good at jumping to conclusions with little to no evidence.

“Anyway, it’s your turn first,” Vox says before Valentino has time to keep pressing. “Stop questioning me.”

“Tell us about your boring life,” Velvette agrees. “Vox, sweetie, babes, girl, can you—should I stop calling you that?”

Vox, who can’t currently move most of his body thanks to the doll pinning one of his arms down and the moth whose longs limbs are wrapped around him, plays a shrug animation on his screen in lieu of response. When he remembers his ‘head’ is flat on a pillow and Velvette can’t see his face unless she gets up and leans over him, he says, “Imagine I’m shrugging.”

“Imagine I’m flipping you off and telling you to stop giving me bullshit answers when I’m trying to be nice to your plastic arse.”

“Don’t be mean to babydoll,” Val adds.

“Fine,” Vox mutters. “I don’t care. It’s incorrect, but slang doesn’t have to be factually correct, so…whatever.”

“It bothers him but he doesn’t like admitting he has any sort of problem with anything unless he can blame it on someone else,” Valentino translates helpfully.

Unfortunately, the two of them have known each other for almost forty years, and even someone as dense as Val will start to notice few things about someone if he sends that long with them.

Even if Vox would really rather he didn’t.

Val has always been very good at telling when someone bothers someone anyway. It’s part of why he’s so good at being manipulative.

“Half my job is literally nonstop PR for your company, just fucking tell me if you don’t like something I’m saying,” Velvette snaps, rolling over to rest her head on his chest. “Does that apply to all feminine terms?”

“Yes,” Vox says reluctantly. “I—if you forget, it’s whatever, I don’t really care, it’s just—“

“Ah-ah-ah, none of that, Sparky,” Valentino chides teasingly. “We don’t want you getting too overheated before tonight.”

“Don’t start, you creepy grandpa,” Velvette warns. “Vox, I’ll stop calling you feminine terms. Was that so hard? Now get on with it, Val, I don’t have all day.”

Vox does not point out how they’ve been here for hours already, and he does not mention how he’s temporarily turned off notifications to both Val and Vel’s phones. He’ll let them yell at him later, once they’ve finally returned to their respective workplaces and Valentino realizes Angel Dust has finally returned from a week of sulking after Val did something stupid enough for the princess to make Alastor to get involved and Velvette realizes two of her new interns managed to set a fire when they were trying to curl a model’s hair, reducing the model to a pile of ash and almost entirely destroying the new setup for the seasonal photoshoot.

“Also, turn your face back on. I was in the middle of something.”

Vox removes the Sinstagram app from his display before he switches back to the tab Velvette opened last. She doesn’t protest, so she didn’t go looking for it. So she’s still interested in their little bonding exercise, or whatever this has become. With their respective tolerances, there’s pretty much no chance any of them can blame their honesty on the pills they took. Val takes enough shit to kill an elephant on a daily basis, the substance flowing through Vox’s bloodstream is only about a seventh actual blood at this point, and he’s pretty sure Velvette isn’t completely organic either. If she was, her limbs probably wouldn’t fall off so much.

Still. If Vox had a heart, it’d be warm.

(Well, duh, yes, he does know how hearts work, even if he physically lost his seventy years ago. He knows hearts are always warm. It’s a fucking metaphor or some shit.)

“Well…” Val says. “After we graduated, I left for the city.”

“Which city?” Vox asks. “Where were you, actually?”

“Well, my mother was from Puerto Rico, obviously,” Val tells him. “Her family immigrated to the States at some point, I don’t know when, but she lived in New Mexico when she got pregnant with me. Her old aunt Jacinta, the one who raised me, lived in Arizona.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Vox reminds him. “Stop going off-topic.”

“I’m sharing my family history, guapo,” Val sniffs. “Don’t interrupt. I grew up in Arizona, and once I graduated, I left with Scott for Houston.”

“How’d that go?” Velvette asks. She sounds bored.

“Better than Voxy’s little adventure did,” Val says. “But not by much.”

The problem with Scott, Oscar had realized much too late, was that he was an idiot.

“You’re an idiot,” he said flatly, standing in the middle of the kitchen in their shitty one-bedroom apartment. He didn’t bother signing along. If Scott was going to be so stupid, Oscar wasn’t going to bother being nice to him.

What am I supposed to do? Scott signed, glowering at him. I’m deaf!

“Really,” Oscar snapped. “No, really. I hadn’t fucking noticed.”

If you’re not going to put any effort into making it possible for me to understand you, why are we talking?

Oscar shrugged. He threw his arms out, gesturing around them, and then, slowly, like he was trying to make himself understood to a child, he signed, I’m not your daddy. You pay your own bills.

I don’t have a job! Scott reminded him, scowl deepening.

“That is the entire fucking problem, thank you for noticing,” Oscar huffed, reluctantly signing along, because there was no point in berating Scott if he couldn’t understand. “This place is in your name. Why am I paying for everything?”

Because you can hear? Because you can talk properly? Because the only reason we’re here is because you needed a white guy to sign the lease?

“You should be fucking grateful,” Oscar hissed. “You think your parents were going to keep you around forever, a grown-ass man who can’t even talk? I saved you, asshole. You won’t even look for something!”

How am I supposed to do that if I can’t understand whoever’s interviewing me? Scott demanded.

“I’ll go with you,” Oscar said irritably. He crossed his arms. He had half a mind to toss Scott out of the streets, it wasn’t like Oscar couldn’t have paid the bills himself, but if there was one thing he knew it was self-preservation. There was a reason Scott was here at all, and it was an important one. Oscar couldn’t risk losing him.

Unfortunately, keeping Scott from going anywhere and talking him into getting a job required a ridiculous amount of maneuvering, balancing, and a few blowjobs. It also gave Oscar the realization that he definitely hadn’t properly appreciated Roy Preston’s willingness to admit that he was gay. Oscar had figured something was off about Scott for years, and he hadn’t been surprised when Scott proved especially receptive to Oscar’s careful experiments.

But Oscar was not one for generosity, or putting a partner before him, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be willing to put up with a complete and utter lack of reciprocation. Really, at some point it just became bad manners.

He’d figured Scott would probably get over himself and admit he was at least a little queer fairly quickly, and then maybe Oscar could’ve got the teensiest bit of pleasure out of this whole mess, but no.

Scott had also not managed to realize that eventually Oscar was just going to go out and find another white man, one who could hear and talk and get over himself long enough for mildly decent sex, but as previously stated, Scott was an idiot.

You’re an idiot, Oscar signed, and then, because Scott clearly wasn’t going to get there on his own, I can find another white man, you know.

Scott stiffened, because yes, he really was that much of an idiot.

You’re my friend, he signed quickly. You’re not going to throw me out. I’m not a toy.

Oscar had to physically stop himself from rolling his eyes. Instead, he just narrowed them and bit his lip as subtletly as possible to stop from laughing. I won’t have a choice. I can’t afford this forever. You need to help me out.

Where are you even getting money? Scott asked, reverting to his usual strategy of bad attempts at misdirection. What’s your job?

He sold drugs for a man he’d met at a bar and had an agreement with a few of the hookers he’d befriended that he’d advertise their services to his customers as long as they compensated him for every job they got because of it. I’m a cashier at a drugstore.

Scott rolled his eyes. There was absolutely no chance he believed that, but it didn’t matter. At least Oscar brought in money. Scott didn’t have the right to say anything about where it came from unless he started contributing.

…he wouldn’t have the right then either, but Oscar could pretend he would.

“Does it really matter what I’m doing?” Oscar demanded. “I’m paying the rent! I’m doing our taxes! You don’t even get food until I make you!”

You don’t make me do anything, Scott signed immediately. And the only reason you don’t do that yourself is because you’re not supposed to be here. What are you going to do without me?

Ask yourself that, Oscar countered. Without me, you’d be on in the streets in a matter of days. And at least I could survive there.

We grew up together, Scott reminded him. The toughest work you’ve ever done is keeping whatever girl you were talking to from figuring out about the other three.

Oscar considered ridiculing him for having such poor luck with girls that Oscar himself was probably the only person other than Scott himself who’d touched his dick. But that would probably end poorly.

“At least girls like me,” he sneered. Tell me the truth, I’m the only one who’s ever touched you, right?

Scott turned beetroot red. “You fucking prick,” he swore loudly. Despite all of his insistences of how wonderful and amazing signing was, he still retorted to speaking when he got angry enough. Privately, Oscar thought this was just because he missed talking and he didn’t need to worry about being too loud when he was angry. Scott got pissy and refused to talk or sign whenever Oscar pointed that out, though. “Fuck you!”

You want to, don’t you? Oscar jeered. He might not have much impulse control, but he at least knew not to go around shouting about sodomy in a white neighborhood he shouldn’t have been in, in his apartment that he had no legal right to step foot in. The neighbors knew someone else lived with Scott, surely, they had to with the amount of fighting the two of them did, but they’d never gotten a good look at Oscar himself and that was how it would stay.

I’m not like you, Scott insisted. I like girls.

So do I, Oscar agreed. At least I’ve got the history to prove it.

At least I can live where I want, Scott retorted. A low blow, and they both knew it, but their fights consisted of nothing but low blows and threats that would probably never be carried out.

But what happens to you if I don’t come back tomorrow? Oscar promoted. What happens if I leave? I can. No one even knows I’m here.

“Fine!” Scott shot. “Fine, I will—“

The rest of his words were warped enough that Oscar didn’t catch them, but he didn’t bother asking for clarification. He got the gist of it, which was that he’d won.

We should probably work on your talking, Oscar signed. It’s getting worse. You need to be able to tell someone you’re deaf, not thick in the head.

Scott looked like he was seriously considering hitting Oscar.

Why are you looking at me like that? Oscar teased. I’m not a girl.

You’re right, Scott signed slowly, and then he tackled Oscar to the floor.

“Oh, you utter piece of shit,” Oscar snarled, shoving off the floor and grabbing Scott as he rolled, pinning Scott to the floor instead of him. “The fuck did I do?”

Scott held up a middle finger. Oscar shoved him back down by his shoulders, and then punched him in his face.

Scott screamed, blood pouring down his face, and Oscar, assuming it was over, lessened the pressure on his shoulders so he’d be able to move again.

Scott kneed him in the balls, which in retrospect, was not really that surprising.

However, in that moment, all Oscar did was shriek, not at all like a little girl, and fall backwards onto the ground.

“Done bitching?” Scott asked.

“Oh, fuck that, you’re going to die,” Oscar snarled, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he was lying on his back on the floor, clutching his pants.

It was also ruined by the fact that Scott couldn’t hear him, but that did give Oscar another few moments to remember that they were in an apartment building and if one of their neighbors heard them fighting and called the police, Scott was not the one most likely to be dragged to jail.

Fine, Oscar signed, beginning to gingerly sit up. You should be thankful I changed my mind about kids.

“You’d be a shit dad,” Scott told him, hands busy pressing a piece of paper to his nose. “Raise a bunch of queers. Think you broke my nose.”

That’s shit luck for you, Oscar responded. Scott did not deserve sympathy. He had no regrets.

He moved to stand up, then stopped.

He had some regrets.

“My nose is definitely broken,” Scott told him. “It’s out of place.”

I can fix that, Oscar signed, letting himself fall back onto the floor. Later. If you ask nicely.

Scott rolled his eyes, poking at it. He tried to pull the paper away, and the amount of blood pouring down his face tripled. He pulled another paper out of his pocket and tried hopelessly to prevent any more damage to his shirt.

It’ll come out in cold water, Oscar informed him. Also, that better not be important.

Scott shrugged. “It’s not anymore.”

Oscar threw a shoe at him. It hit his shoulder.

Scott began swearing loudly at him. Eventually, he stopped speaking and went back to signing, completely ignoring the blood he was still covered in.

Then someone knocked at the door.

Oscar raised his hand. Someone’s at the door. Go get it.

Scott’s hands stopped. He looked behind him at the door. He looked back at Oscar. He looked down at his own hands.

I’ll pretend there was a break-in, he finally signed. You should probably run off for a bit.

Oscar groaned loudly, and then realized what he’d done and very carefully got to his feet, quietly hurrying over to an open window.

Have fun! he signed, then grabbed a nearby hat and jacket from off a table (this was usually how he came and went from the apartment) pulled them on, and disappeared out the window, leaving his deaf roommate to explain the fighting and large amounts of blood to their nosy neighbors.

After all, if Scott had just listened to him, none of this would’ve happened.

“Did someone call the cops?” Velvette asks.

“Obviously,” Valentino says. “And the break-in story didn’t work at all. Mostly because when the apartment was searched they found most of my drugs, and he was arrested. It was fine, he was only there for a week or two until I figured out something had happened and paid a friend to get him out.”

Vox wishes he was more surprised it took Valentino an entire week to even notice the guy was gone. Or, y’know. Surprised at all.

“Have you ever had a proper job?” Vox asks him flatly. “A legitimate, legal job. Ever.”

Valentino hesitates, presumably thinking. That is, assuming he’s capable of thought. Vox still isn’t certain.

“Yes,” he finally says.

“Every part of it legal?”

Valentino hesitates some more. “I think so. How much of this is legal?”

“Considering the only laws here are what the Sins and Lucifer enforce, and all of the rest are laid out by us?“ Vox asks.

“Yeah,” Val agrees. “I mean, we can do what we want, so this is all fine, right?”

“No,” Vox says. “Your studios are in direct violation of multiple of Asmodeus’ laws. Vel has been operating without any sort of Envy permit, due to a loophole I found concerning when permits are necessary, and even if VoxTech followed the laws to a T I’d still be in trouble for covering for both of you if anyone ever took an interest in us.”

“Wait,” Velvette says. “We’re that close to collapse?”

“No,” Vox assures her. “I’ve got…failsafes. Don’t worry about that. Anyway, Val, this is not completely legal.”

“Yeah,” Valentino says, then shakes his head. “Uh, no. Never.”

Vox would roll his eyes if had them. Right now, he’s still letting himself be used as a tablet.

“Imagine,” Velvette says. “Actually, wait, that’s lowkey goals.“

“Right?” Valentino agrees. “If you can make a living off drugs and sex, what’s the point in anything else?”

“That is a terrible motto and you would’ve never gotten this far without me,” Vox tells him.

“I got far enough to get your attention,” Valentino reminds him. “You don’t need to run a marathon if you can walk three blocks to a bus stop.”

“Are you trying to come up with inspiration messages for mooching off other people?” Velvette asks. “That’s perfect. Repeat that, I’m posting it.”

Valentino repeats himself dutifully, and Velvette grabs her phone out of her pocket. Vox has less than half a second to wipe every single message sent from her employees in the last two hours.

He manages, of course. But he’s going to have to put a filter on the comments of this post, because once her assistants see this they’ll be blowing it up complaining about the ghosting.

“Alright,” she says, and holds her phone up to snap a selfie of the three of them, making a peace sign with her other hand. “There, posted. Anyway, Lite-Brite, you married that lesbian tradwife?”

“It was the thirties,” Vox tells her. “Everyone was a tradwife. We just called them wives.”

“Whatever, lame. Makes more sense that you’re not some stuck-up wannabe tough guy if you’re trans.”

Vox reflects back on his life for a moment. “That’s generous.”

“We had a very different view of women back then, chiquita,” Val adds. “Not me, of course, I’ve always appreciated a working woman, and I knew boys could be bitches just as easily. All you need to do is—“

“If you seriously try to mansplain misogyny to me, I will livestream your reaction to a bright light without your sunglasses,” Velvette interrupts.

Val falls silent.

“Anyway,” Vox coughs. “I did marry her. When she was twenty, just like I promised. Stole her away in the middle of the night.”

“Romantic,” Velvette deadpans, clearly bored. “What about Alastor? Weren’t you still trying to prove to him that you weren’t a pathetic little kid?”

“He—he might’ve thought that,” Vox says reluctantly. “But…no. It wasn’t like that. I was happy with my wife.”

“So what happened with you?” Valentino asks. One of his hands plays with Vox’s bowtie, just low enough so that Vox can feel it with his skin instead of his sensors. He wonders if Val knows what he’s doing, or if it’s just dumb luck.

“I got married,” Vox says again. “Alastor was there.”

“Did you know fireflies are the only insects who mate for life? Every other bug just flies around attempting to reproduce, but fireflies have a special way of recognizing their mate and won’t pay attention to any other potential partners once they’ve settled down. If their mate dies, they’ll stop functioning and let themselves die rather than go on alone. It’s foolish, I think, but rather touching.”

“You made that up, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’re terribly naïve sometimes. It’s amusing to see what you’ll believe.”

“I pretend to, sometimes, you know.”

“Oh?”

“I wanted to see if you’d ever admit to it.”

“And what did you find?”

“You’re remorseless.”

“I imagine you meant that as an insult, but you’re quite right either way. I see no point in doing things I may regret.”

“I didn’t, actually. It’s just an observation.”

“I see. My mother has severely overestimated your inner goodness, hasn’t she?”

“What has she told you about me?”

“What has she told you about me?”

“Fine, then. I suppose I can guess.”

“Mhm.”

“…imagine if they do, though. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Hm?”

“Fireflies. Imagine if you were right, and decades from now we’ll find out they actually do mate for life, and you’ll have been the only person who guessed it.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to include it somehow in tomorrow’s broadcast, so I have proof to back up my claims when the time comes.”

“I’m a witness, technically.”

“I don’t expect you to be roaming free in a few decades.”

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, as most things tend to! You’re a crossdresser illegally married to another woman, aren’t you? I doubt you’ll be able to keep that charade up for long, but the best of luck to you.”

“I’m not a crossdresser.”

“Oh, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not. I am illegally married, I’ll admit to that, but I’m not a crossdresser.”

“If you aren’t, why would your marriage be illegal?”

“Because I was born a woman. But I’m a man now. In every way that matters.”

“And here I was under the impression that your lovely new bride had a strong preference for the fairer sex.”

“…she does, yes.”

“And yet you do not consider yourself a woman.”

“That’s…correct, yes.”

“So how long do you think your marriage will last if she lacks interest in relationships with men and you possess interest in being one?”

“I’m not a prophet like you, am I?”

“I suppose not.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

“I try to keep myself as honest as possible. I find it a refreshing trait in others, so I always exhibit it myself. Therefore, no. I will sound as disappointed as I like.”

“You always do what you like.”

“Hm. I wouldn’t say that’s true.”

“You always do what you like when it’s in your power, is that better?”

“Quite!”

“You’re a strange man.”

“I’m also over ten years older than you, which you seem to have forgotten entirely. What are you, nineteen?”

“Twenty-one, nearly.”

“Twenty-one?”

“I told your mother I was fifteen when we met. I was seventeen. I thought it’d help explain a few things away if she thought I was younger. How old are you, anyway?”

“Thirty-four.”

“…excuse me? You’re what?”

“Thirty-four. What did you expect?”

“I…I don’t know. You seem younger than that.”

“Ah, yes! That’s because I enjoy the simple things in life, unlike most, who gallivant around searching for things better than what they have. I, my dear, am and always have been perfectly satisfied with what I am given, and that sets me apart.”

“You like to talk about yourself a lot.”

“It’s my favorite subject!”

“…I’m slightly surprised you admitted that.”

“I did just tell you I try to be honest, do pay attention. Besides, you on the other hand seem almost like you could’ve been a classmate of mine.”

“Odd.”

“It is, isn’t it!”

“Can I ask you something?”

“I did just say I love to speak of myself.”

“It’s personal.”

“Go ahead. I’ve never understood asking to ask, it seems dreadfully pointless. How should I know whether or not I wish to answer if I don’t know the question?”

“Heh. You’re right again. Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re thirty-four, you’ve got a good job, your own house…don’t you get lonely?”

“Not particularly. I’ve never had the desire for companionship beyond what I already have.”

“Do you like women?”

“Why, of course! They’re delightful.”

“Of course, but I meant it more in an…ah, I speak of…personal preferences.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I think I would prefer that.”

“I’m sorry. Am I being overbearing?”

“On the contrary, I find you a very amusing conversational partner.”

“I…thank you.”

“If you were fishing for something in particular with your questions, however, I will remind you that you are very newly married and I am, once more, thirteen years your senior.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t, I assure you.”

“Good.”

“You don’t like it when people show interest in you?”

“I positively despise it.”

“Why?”

“What is there to like? Did you ever like it?”

“I…well, if…not quite. But my situation is a bit different.”

“How so?”

“Look at me. Do you honestly think that anyone could make a single kind remark on my appearance that did not refer to my undeniable femininity?”

“So you dislike compliments as a whole because you do not appreciate the nature of those which you usually receive?”

“Yes.”

“What if I were to admit I thought you handsome?”

“….I…”

“It’s simply your own insecurities, then. Not any underlying dislike of romantic advances.”

“I…yes, that’s…that’s it.”

“You’ve gone awfully red.”

“Sorry, I know you just said you don’t like it when…I don’t mean anything by it, I apologize, I can’t help it, it’s just…”

“Has no one ever called you handsome before?”

“No. Never.”

“Not even your lovely wife?”

“As you said yourself, she prefers women. And only women.”

“So even if you were to possess more masculine features…”

“She wouldn’t find my appearance attractive in the slightest.”

“Quite the pickle, I’ll say!”

“What’s love if not a glorious tragedy?”

“Oh. You love her?”

“More than anything.”

“…I see.”

“Did you think it was mutually loveless?”

“Well, yes.”

“That’d be far too easy. I love her in the way a man loves a woman, and she loves me, in the way women like her love other women, and in the end either I will spend my entire life lying even to those who knows my secrets, or she will leave me and I will live my lonely truth.”

“It’d make a fine tragedy play.”

“Who would go see a queer tragedy?”

“I would. But I see your point.”

“Do you think enough people will someday? Do you think it will ever change?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If there’s one thing as inevitable as death and taxes, it’s that nothing can ever be perfect so long as there are people around to ruin it.”

“I suppose you’ve got a point.”

“Don’t tell me you disagree?”

“Not that nothing can ever be perfect, I agree with that. But…maybe we’ll keep getting just a little bit closer, and then closer, and closer, and maybe eventually we’ll forget we ever wished for perfection to begin with.”

“Neither of us will live to see such a world, my friend, and I daresay I wouldn’t wish to.”

“Why not?”

“If one does not strive for perfection, what is there to work for? So long as we are driven to improve, we will find our own satisfaction.”

“You ought to be a scholar.”

“Oh, I’d make a fine one, but I must say I enjoy my chosen profession enough that I do not ever wish to leave.”

“Really? Television is getting more popular. I’m not too sure radio will survive until the end of our lives.”

“Oh, don’t you dare say such terrible things! Radio will never die so long as there is a microphone and a voice to speak into it.”

“And you’ll provide the voice?”

“I’ll be the voice. Just think, to be nothing but a voice on the radio, to cease to exist beyond the limits of radio waves!”

“It sounds rather lonely.”

“Would you rather be a voice or a moving picture?”

“I’d rather be flesh and bones, but if I had to choose…I’d choose the voice, probably, but for different reasons.”

“To discard your mortal form?”

“You say it in such a funny way, but yes. If I could be a real man, I’d be happy forever with my blood, but I don’t think I could stand existing as nothing but this body for very long.”

“I find it odd how you fixate on such things. I’ve never felt any particular way about my own casing.”

“Casing?”

“It is nothing but the material protecting the voice.”

“You do have a fine voice.”

“Thank you!”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“When you said earlier, you disliked compliments, and I argued it was different for me—I was incorrect, it seems.”

“Oh?”

“You do enjoy praise, so long as it’s only for the parts of yourself you take pride in.”

“Of course. And you feel the same.”

“Yes.”

“See! We aren’t so different after all.”

“Except for the thirteen years.”

“Oh, pish. I’d die before you even if it wasn’t for that.”

“Why do you say?”

“I can’t go telling you all my secrets, now, can I? Then what would I have left to say?”

“Fair enough. I suppose I’ll learn it soon enough.”

“Yes, I do expect you will.”

Victor turned to look at the outline of the other man, taking him in. They were sitting on the edge of Ida’s porch, watching the night.

“Alastor?” Victor asked, and Alastor turned, his dark brown eyes meeting Victor’s. Polar opposites, Victor thought absently, Alastor’s brown eyes and his own, pale blue.

“Yes?” Alastor asked. It was always slightly unnerving to hear him speak clearly, in a voice that wasn’t altered by radio waves, even when Victor spoke to him more regularly than he listened to Alastor’s broadcasts. In person, Alastor didn’t seem quite right.

It made sense, how he described himself. As nothing but the voice coming from the radio.

“Are you going to die?” Victor asked him.

“We all will someday,” Alastor said.

“That’s not an answer,” Victor told him.

“It’s the closest thing to one I could offer you, aside from I don’t know,” he said simply. “I thought you’d prefer it.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t die at all.”

“I never said I was going to.”

“You’re acting like a grandfather on his deathbed. Asking questions, trying to show concern for me, explaining yourself…”

“Hm,” Alastor muttered. “You’re irritatingly observant on occasion.”

Victor smiled, hopeful. “And if you die, who will be left to tell me that?”

“Your wife,” Alastor reminded him, and Victor’s smile dropped.

“Don’t die,” he said quietly.

“I can’t promise that.”

“I’d feel better if you did.”

“Even if it turns out to be a lie?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if you promise you won’t, and you die anyway, I’ll know you didn’t want to. I’ll know you died clinging to life.”

“And will bring you comfort?”

“It’ll bring me something much closer to comfort than anything else would.”

“I see,” Alastor said. “You seem awfully fond of me, considering how little time we’ve spent together.”

“You know you’re charming,” Victor dismissed. This time, Alastor didn’t ask if it was meant as a flirtation. Victor hoped that was because he knew it wasn’t.

“…you’ve grown on me as well,” Alastor finally said, after a long pause that wasn’t comfortable or uncomfortable. It just was. “You are…unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I think the same of you, but I imagine most do.”

“It means nothing when I hear it from them.”

“And when you hear it from me?”

Alastor looked at him, a conflicted expression barely visible on his face, cloaked by the shadows left behind by the long-gone sun.

“I promise you I won’t die,” Alastor said slowly, uncertainly, and Victor’s face split apart into a grin.

“That’s all I’ll ever ask,” he said openly. “May I touch you?”

“Yes,” Alastor said, and Victor hugged him, making sure not to squeeze him tightly enough to cause discomfort, but holding him as tightly as he dared. After a second, Alastor’s arms wrapped around Victor as well, and the two of them sat like that, hugging on Ida’s porch, until Alma came out to call them in for dinner.

“I care for you, Victor,” Alastor whispered to him that night, as Victor and Alma bid the Landrys a good night. “Deeply. I always will, understand? No matter what happens, no matter what they say, I will never stop caring for you.”

“I love you,” Victor said, translating Alastor’s words, and then he said it for himself. “I love you, Alastor, and I always will.”

They pulled apart, standing there just looking at each other for a moment, before Alma slipped her arm through Victor’s, kissing his cheek and nodding to the door.

“Good night, Alastor, Mum!” Victor said as he left.

“I promise,” Alastor called back. “I promise, Victor!”

“What does he mean?” Alma asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Victor told her. “It’s just a joke.”

“Doesn’t seem like one,” she said suspiciously, and he assured her that it was, that he’d explain it later, and she’d believe him eventually, but in the end she would be right.

Alastor would die three days later.

Victor never did get a chance to explain the joke.

And even now, Vox doesn’t say any of that.

Chapter Text

Instead, he says, “The Landrys came with us to the church. We had to drive a bit, to find one that would let them in, but we found one, and afterward we had dinner at Ida’s house. And then we left and I never saw Alastor again. He was found later that week with a bullet in his head.” 

Velvette sits up. She’s basically straddling his chest now, but he doesn’t really care. Valentino would probably make a dirty comment about it, but he’s too busy staring at Vox, looking wildly confused. 

“Really?” Velvette questions, skeptical. “That’s it? I thought we were doing proper stories.”

“That wasn’t in the rules,” Vox points out. 

“Well, yeah,” Valentino says slowly. “But we all—“

“You asked about him,” Vox says mildly. “And I told you. There isn’t too much of a story there.”

“Isn’t there?” Val prompts. 

“Not one for anyone else to hear,” Vox admits. “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. I don’t think he knows who I am.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Velvette asks. “You recognized him instantly, right?”

“Yes,” Vox confirms. “Because he was using the name Alastor, had a similar appearance, and was called the Radio Demon. And I knew a man with that name who was a radio host with a habit of murdering anyone that annoyed him. He knew a crossdressing teenager calling himself Victor, and I’m not sure if you realize this, but I didn’t exactly have a television for a head back when I was alive. No one’s ever recognized me.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be smart?” Val asks condescendingly. “Maybe he’s figured it out.”

“He asked me if I knew of anyone named Victor Nixon back when we still worked together,” Vox does not say. “He was looking for me. And I didn’t let him find me, because if we’d known each other for decades in Hell and he hadn’t even been suspicious enough to ask about my life on Earth, I didn’t think it was worth it.”

Valentino and Velvette are still looking at him, waiting for a response, because Vox did not say any of that, just like he doesn’t say, “I don’t need him to reject me twice over.”

Just like he doesn’t say, “I died when I was thirty-nine so I wouldn’t have to tell myself I’d spent twenty years without him.”

Just like he doesn’t say, “He was all I’ve ever really wanted and now he’s the only thing I can never have.”

Just like he doesn’t say, “I spent seven years convinced he was gone for good and it destroyed me, and then I found out he wasn’t and that destroyed me again.”

The only thing he does say is, “Alastor’s not as smart as he likes to think he is,” because isn’t that the bitterest truth? Alastor isn’t all that smart in the end, but neither is Vox because here he is, isn’t he? Here he is, sitting and waiting like a dog longing for its master, here he is, pathetically scrambling for even the smallest morsel of Alastor’s attention, here he is, desperately wanting a man who wants nothing to do with him. 

“Maybe not,” Velvette says, studying him, and then she shrugs. “My turn?”

“Your turn,” Vox agrees. 

Valentino blows more smoke in their direction. It curls around Velvette’s shoulders, but unlike the chains he wraps around his contracted souls, it’s more like a scarf than a collar. A show of true affection, for him. Vox is almost touched enough not to remind him he isn’t supposed to be smoking in bed when Vox is right next to him. Almost. “Tell us more about your friends, chiquita. I’m loving the drama.”

“Stop with the cigarettes for five minutes,” Vox snaps. “It gets in my vents. And I do not want to find out if I can get addicted to your drug spit.”

“Don’t be a whiny bitch,” Val retorts, but he doesn’t take another drag and when he seems to think Vox has stopped paying attention he flings it towards an ashtray across the room. He misses, but Vox ignores it. He stopped buying flammable carpets a long time ago for exactly this reason. 

“Okay,” Velvette says. “Well, there was the time I went prom dress shopping for the first time.”

“I just…I don’t know, Krista. It’s weird.”

“Oh, come on. She’s finally warming up to you, why are you being like this?”

“She is not. All that stuff was done on principle. Not to defend me, she hates me. She’s just lying low, now, ‘cause of Lori.”

“Why do you keep saying it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like…all weird, y’know.”

“You mean why do I keep talking like she killed Lori?”

“Girl!”

“What? We were both thinking it.”

“No, we were not. That’s my best friend you’re talking about, you better not be spreading rumors.”

“I’m not! They spread themselves. Everyone thinks it’s weird, Krista. I wish you’d tell me what happened.”

“I did. Are you calling me a liar now?”

“No! Krista, no, I promise, I just…I think, well, maybe you’re…never mind.”

“No, no, out with it. Maybe I’m what?”

“Afraid.”

“…sorry?”

“I think maybe you’re afraid of what Ginny will do to you if you say anything.”

“Anything about what?” Ginny asked lightly, shoving aside the hangers and walking up. Monique fell silent immediately, guilt and anxiety and just a little teensy sprinkle of fear written all over her face. Krista just glared at her before turning to face Ginny. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Krista said, grinning just as if it really had been nothing to worry about. She was a good liar. Ginny had complimented her for that on multiple occasions. “Find anything yet?”

“Nah,” Ginny said. She’d press the matter later, maybe, just for show. Although there was a fair chance Krista had noticed her lurking before she’d made herself known, which would be slightly problematic because it was crucial that Krista never feel personally threatened by Ginny. The moment she became a victim, she’d stop playing, and that wouldn’t be very much fun at all. Monique would have to be dealt with, maybe. Just in case. But not yet. Krista had only just forgiven Ginny for Lori, and she’d always been fond of Monique. It’d have to look like an accident, or at least like Ginny had no choice. 

Just food for thought, now. But it was always better to be cautious. 

“Are you going with blue or pink?” Krista asked. “I’m thinking pink, but I think Steph Conway’s going with red and she looks, like, way too much like me. Her style’s even kinda similar, but I swear she copies me sometimes.”

“I swear,” Ginny agreed. “Go with pink. We can have a loud conversation tomorrow in bio about what jewelry to wear with a blue dress, and that’ll deal with that. Have you seen anything red?”

“I’ve seen, like, fifty million red things, but there was one with this black tulle overlay…”

Ginny grinned. “Perfect.” She linked her arm with Krista’s, tugging her forward, and Krista fell in line without a second’s hesitation, the two of them walking off in perfect unison. Ginny didn’t glance back. Krista didn’t either. 

“She knows nothing,” Krista said as soon as they were out of earshot. They were doing this now, then. That worked. “She’s just being bitchy because you’re…curt, with her. Sometimes.”

“Because I don’t like her and I’m mean,” Ginny corrected. “But good. We’ve gotta be careful, Krissy. Both of us.”

“I know,” Krista said. “I know, Gin.”

“Good,” Ginny said, satisfied. “Where’s that dress?”

Krista pointed with her free hand, and the two of them set off in that direction, passing Deanna and Lindsey fussing over a rack, Melanie comparing colors to her skin tone while Claudia and Eliza (who’d moved there a few months ago from England , of all places) gave their opinions, and Adrienne, arguing with her mother in front of the dressing rooms. 

“You’ve been close with her lately,” Ginny said under her breath. “What’s up with that?”

“Nothing,” Krista said calmly. Too calmly, maybe? “I just like her. I’m allowed to have different opinions, babe. Don’t worry, you’ll always be my number one.”

“Right back atcha, girly pop. I can’t believe she thought you were scared of me .”

Krista laughed, gently bumping her shoulder into Ginny’s. “Please. It’s like, does she even know the meaning of ride or die?”

“No loyalty,” Ginny agreed. “I don’t get her. But whatever makes you happy, I guess. Oh!”

“Right?” Krista said happily, pulling her arm free to gesture at the dress in front of them. It was like she’d said, deep red with a black overlay and an illusion neckline that somehow managed to be revealing yet modest enough for anyone aiming to suddenly start enforcing the dress code. It was gorgeous. With black stilettos, her red clutch, and maybe her hair straightened and then curled at the ends…she’d have to see if her mother would do that, it always came out slightly wonky when she did it herself, and Krista was the only who didn’t act a little weird about styling Ginny’s hair. And there was a reason Krista hadn’t let her hair grow past her shoulders since her mother stopped putting it in two braids. 

There was Monique, of course, but Ginny was not about to let Monique touch her hair or any part of her. She wasn’t that desperate. 

“You’re the best, babes,” Ginny said honestly, and Krista’s smile widened even further. “This is perfect .”

“Only one like it in the store, too,” Krista assured her. “So there’s no chance of any more problems .”

“You’re so sweet,” Ginny said absently, reaching out to rub the material between her fingers. She found the price tag quickly, turning it over, and breathing a sigh of relief. “I should go find my mother. She’ll want to see me try it on first.”

Krista nodded. “I think she was looking at shoes. No clue why, didn’t you already get new heels for homecoming?”

“She’s probably just avoiding people,” Ginny admitted. “She literally told me she wasn’t buying me more than one pair of new shoes a year, and I need new shoes for next hoco, obviously…”

“Obviously,” Krista echoed, and she waited as Ginny carefully lifted the dress up, checking the size to make sure it was appropriate, and then the two of them set off for the shoe section. 

Ginny’s mother was currently inspecting a pair of ugly peach-colored sandals with way too much enthusiasm for anyone to find her even mildly believable. She glanced up, and when she saw Ginny, she jumped to her feet, shoving the shoes away without a second thought. 

“Have you decided?” she asked. Ginny barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. 

“I’m trying it on first, Mum,” she said slowly. “Do you want to see?”

“Oh, just—fine, fine,” her mother said hurriedly. “Your father is expecting me home soon, we really need to hurry, Virginia.”

“My mom can drive her home,” Krista said brightly, but she was giving Ginny her usual wide-eyed look which meant she had no idea what was going on. “Since we were going to go to a diner afterward.”

“Oh,” Ginny’s mom said. “Oh, I don’t…I don’t know about that, Virginia, could I talk to you for a second?”

“Mum, you just said we had to hurry,” Ginny said flatly. She really, really was not in the mood for this, but the only girls in their group who hadn’t brought a parent were Monique, who was already embarrassing enough by just being herself, and Claudia, whose father was deployed and mother had her two younger brothers to wrangle. Claudia was always excused, and Monique was pathetic, but Ginny didn’t have a good excuse and she wasn’t willing to sink to Monique’s level. 

“Virginia,” her mother said sharply, and Ginny exchanged an exasperated look with Krista, but she followed her mother deeper into the shoe aisles. “Virginia, I do not appreciate this attitude you’re giving me.”

“I’m sorry, Mum,” Ginny said automatically. “I just want to have fun with my friends.”

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy?” she snapped. “Your mean old mother, won’t let you have any fun. You gonna pay for this yourself, Virginia?”

“This wasn’t even a fight,” Ginny argued. “You’re being dramatic. Not everything is an insult, Mum!”

“You’re been spending too much time with that girl,” Ginny’s mother said distastefully. “What’s with this mum thing? Are you British now?”

“Mom,” Ginny complained. “Eliza’s British. Her accent’s cool. That’s all there is to it.”

She’d been trying to do it subtly because while it was true that British accents were hot as fuck, it wouldn’t do for anyone to figure out that Ginny Campbell was copying someone else. Eliza, at least, was cool. She knew how to dress and how to act and she’d recognized that Ginny was on her level almost immediately, so that was a point in her favor, obviously. 

But she should probably slow it down a bit if even her mother was starting to notice. Her mother barely even noticed if Ginny didn’t come home. It’d taken a ridiculous amount of time to get her to agree to come here, and even then she’d forgotten and Ginny had to remind her and tell her that Krista’s mother was expecting her and people would talk if she didn’t show. If there was one thing Ginny’s mother hated, it was people talking. At her, about her, whatever. 

“Are you talking back to me?” Ginny’s mother demanded. “Do you wanna explain to your father why you just had to spend all this money on shoes and hair and a dress and—“

“I already have shoes, and I’m not going anywhere for my hair! It’s literally just a dress!”

“You talking back to me, girl?”

“Just because Dad’s an arse to you doesn’t mean everything has to be the end of the world,” Ginny said hotly. “I don’t need money for the diner. I already have shoes and a bag. Dad said a dress was fine. It’s even on sale. What is the problem here?”

“The problem ,” Ginny’s mother raged, because really just whenever things were going poorly with Ginny’s father she turned into a massive bitch for literally no reason whatsoever, and that was the problem there, “is your attitude, Virginia.”

“I just wanted to show you a dress,” Ginny muttered. “That’s it. I wanted you to come with me and help me buy a prom dress because you’re my mother and I’m your daughter and that’s a normal thing that people do.”

“Fine,” her mother said harshly. She yanked the dress away from her and glanced it over. “Looks good. Is it your size?”

Ginny nodded. 

“Good. Let’s buy it. Where’s the register?”

“I haven’t even tried it on, it—never mind. You can go. I’ll tell Krista’s mom you had a work thing.”

“Make up your mind, Virginia,” her mother complained. “I’m doing what you wanted! What’s the problem now?”

You’re doing it wrong had never been an acceptable answer, and it didn’t make much sense anyway, so Ginny didn’t bother, just shook her head. “This is going to take a while. You’re busy.”

“Fine,” her mother huffed, and if she’d really wanted to be there she probably would’ve argued or maybe grabbed Ginny out with her, but she didn’t so she just pulled a few bills out of her purse, counted them out, and handed them back along with the dress. “You’re getting a ride home?”

“Yeah,” Ginny said, shoving the money in her pocket. “Bye.”

Her mother just rolled her eyes and walked off, and Ginny stared at the ground where she’d been until Krista walked up and put an arm around her shoulders. 

“She’s a bitch,” she said conversationally. “Now c’mon, I found a few others to try on. Time for a fashion show, babe!”

“Yeah,” Ginny said again, then cleared her throat. “Yeah. Let’s go, Kris.”

Krista clucked her tongue, giving Ginny a quick squeeze before grabbing her hand and half-pulling, half-leading her in the direction of the changing rooms. “Just you wait, girly,” she said with a smile, “you’re going to be gorgeous.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“There you go. And yes, you are.”

“Krista?” Ginny asked.

“Yeah?”

“Think Monique will let me use her as a practice model? I need to teach someone else how to straighten my hair. It’s always weird and twisty when I do it.”

“Maybe, but it’s your funeral,” Krista said. “Think you can get over yourself for long enough to let her fix you?”

Ginny shrugged. “If it comes to that.”

“Babe, be real. We both know it’s going to come to that.”

“Your mom really was a bitch, huh?” Val muses.

“I was wondering why she hadn’t come up earlier,” Vox admits.

“There isn’t much to tell,” Velvette says. “Daddy wanted a boy, I was a girl, and I think my mum miscarried a few times afterward but they never said anything to me. After that he turned into a whiny bitch unless I got into a fight, then he’d punch me in the shoulder and call me his girl. I didn’t get into fights much, though. More distant he got, the more neurotic Mum got. So I just did whatever.”

“Parents are pointless,” Valentino says. “Two people fucked and one got knocked up, big deal.”

“You don’t have kids?” Vox asks. He’s more surprised than he’s willing to admit. “Really? ”

“Why the fuck would I?” Valentino asks. “You really think I’m dad material? Dad dy, sure, but to an actual gremlin? Fuck no.”

“You’re from the sixties and you’ll fuck literally anything,” Velvette says flatly. “There’s actually no chance you managed to avoid knocking anyone up.”

Valentino considers it. “Well…if I did, they knew well enough not to leave the thing on the doorstep.”

Vox decides that isn’t his problem. There are very few possible problems that could arise from this, and Vox already has a few safety measures in place in place that apply to children of any of the Vees, so it’ll be fine. It’s fine.

“You’re literally just saying that because you were abandoned,” Velvette says. “Some of us had parents who, like, stuck around.”

“You didn’t.”

“You arse, I’ll—“

“And I was fucking right about the accent! Vox, I told you it was fake!”

“So’s yours!” Velvette retorts. Valentino scoffs.

“I barely have an accent, and at least I’m actually Hispanic!”

“You’re whitewashed as fuck and we all know it. You’re almost as bad as Vox.”

“Do I even count as white anymore?” Vox muses, mostly to himself. Velvette’s now sitting up like she always does when they’re lying down and she wants to feel taller. “I’m kinda just blue. And Val’s red. Vel’s still skin-colored, I guess…”

“Stop breathing near Val,” Velvette snaps at him. “Great, now he’s an idiot. You match.”

“Oh, that hurt,” Valentino says mockingly. He pats Vox on the upper part of his screen with one of his lower hands. “I started speaking Spanish more when I got involved in some business with these Mexican guys, and a few of my old girls were Puerto Rican, so I picked up a bit of an accent. Completely natural.” 

Vox knows for a fact Val exaggerates it when he’s trying to seem sexier, but he doesn’t point that out. Valentino and Velvette have a tendency to get into what are quite literally catfights, clawing and biting each other, and whenever Vox gets too close to one of those he loses a few wires. 

“Bullshit,” Velvette insists. “How do you even know Spanish if you grew up playing white?”

“Fuck off, it was my first language,” Valentino hisses back. “Did you ever have a friend that wasn’t white? Your parents clearly didn’t count.”

“I—says the failed abortion!”

“You probably shouldn’t say that anymore,” Vox remarks. 

“I mean, it’s true,” Valentino admits. “But you were in denial about being gay for your entire life and you—“

“Nope,” Vox interrupts. “Nuh-uh. You’re not going there.”

Val’s mouth falls open. “I can do what I want!”

“Val, I am telling you completely seriously that if you make one more comment about my gender, I will make you wish you lived long enough to die of AIDS.”

“I've already died of AIDs like, three fucking times, you rude-ass bitch,” Valentino snaps. “And I was talking about your Alastor kink!”

“I-for the last time, I do not have an Alastor kink!”

“Babes, you totally have an Alastor kink,” Velvette informs him. “But whatever, keep lying to yourself. And, shitface, sleeping with your friend’s adult brother once and then basically sending him off to go kill himself does not count as embracing your sexuality. Fucking Vox did more than that.”

“I did not! I was never in a relationship with Alastor or any man! I had a wife!”

“We know, baby,” Val tells him distractedly. “You’re a big strong man and you provided for your family and never once thought about sucking your pal off. And, Velvy, I fucked so many men, or, I guess technically I was the one getting fucked back then, but—“

“Stop. TMI. Also, I thought you had a thing going on with your friend? Didn't that last?”

“It’s Val,” Vox reminds her. 

“Right,” Velvette says. She sighs. “Right.”

“Right,” Valentino agrees. He grins, curling in closer, and Velvette lies back down, flopping across him and Vox. “But, well…sometimes sacrifices are necessary. You have to do things your boyfriend might not like because it’s best for him.”

“When have you ever known what is best for anyone.”

“Quiet time, Voxy. You don’t need to be jealous, I know for a fact most of the guys I used to screw around with are dead and I’m sure they’re around here somewhere so you can go kill them later and calm yourself down. The point is, Scott and I had a few…disagreements, early on.”

“Heya, Oz. This the guy?”

“Sure is. You’re really doing me a solid, Ernie, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh, I dunno about that. How bout you give it a shot later?”

“Maybe. If I gotta lug this guy around more, well, then I don’t think I’ll be free, but…”

“You drive a hard bargain, Ozzie.”

“I thought that’s how you liked it?”

“Hah! Damn right. Never change, d’you? Same smooth talker.”

“You make me sound old. Only been a few months, Ern.”

“Too long without your pretty face. Speaking of, this guy ain’t…what’s his name, anyway?”

“Scott,” Oscar supplied, glancing at him. Scott didn’t meet his eyes, instead staring stubbornly down at the pavement. He was sulking again, embarrassed that this was necessary and angry that Oscar wasn’t letting him off, but Oscar didn’t have the time for that. Scott had already been fired from three normal jobs and another less-than-legal gig one of Oscar’s acquaintances had arranged, and the deeper Oscar was forced to search, the more irritable Scott became. He didn’t like being reminded of just how few people would hire someone like him, maybe, or he just didn’t like seeing living proof of everything Oscar had lied to him about. 

Ernest Walker was a handsome man, black, with his hair shaved close to his scalp, an impressive amount of teeth considering his background, intelligent eyes, and he was very obviously checking Oscar out. He had been since they’d gotten here. 

Oscar didn’t mind it. He certainly wasn’t discouraging it; he needed it. But ever since Scott had started working himself up to touching Oscar properly, he’d started getting these silly little ideas in his head about relationships and loyalty. Like he hadn’t been around back in the days when Oscar never kept a girl for longer than a day or two. Did he just think Oscar was gay, and that was why he didn’t stay with women?

He probably did, actually, but whatever. Scott’s sulking was not Oscar’s problem, and he was certainly not about to turn monogamous. He almost shuddered at the very thought. 

“Scott,” Ernest repeated. He tore his eyes away from Oscar long enough to give Scott a brief once-over. “And you said he don’t talk?”

“He talks some,” Oscar corrected. “He can’t hear much at all.”

“But you talk to him?”

Oscar shrugged. “He knows a—well, it’s sign language, I guess. He learned enough to get by years ago, figured out the rest with books, and taught me what he knows. Kinda tricky, though, not many know it.”

Ernest nodded. He looked vaguely fascinated, but also slightly wary. “How’d you say you knew him, again?”

“We live together,” Oscar said automatically, before realizing his mistake when Ernest frowned. “I mean, we grew up in the same town, and I got him to come with me. His name’s on the apartment.”

“Different neighborhood? You playing white, pretty boy?”

“What can I say, I like nice things, and if I can’t get’em on my own…”

Ernest laughed, thankfully. “Fair’nuff. If I talk to him, can you translate?”

Oscar nodded. He poked Scott in the side. 

Scott glanced up, eyes narrowed. What, he signed. 

This is E-R-N-E-S-T, Oscar told him. Be nice. Boss. 

No, Scott signed. 

Yes, Oscar insisted. Boss or streets.

Scott glowered at him so venomously that Oscar was almost surprised he didn’t burst into flames. Fine. 

“All right,” Oscar said breezily, turning back to Ernest. “Mind you, he doesn’t like to talk, between you’n me he can barely tell if he’s shouting or whispering and his words get muddled up, so he gets all shy. But he’ll talk if you need him to, I’ll make him.”

“Dang, Oz,” Ernest said warily, but he didn’t press it. “Ask him if he’s ever done any shit.”

“He doesn’t do drugs,” Oscar said. “Can’t. Can’t talk to anyone without me.”

“Seems to me he’s not much use without you,” Ernest observed. “Why’re you bothering?”

“I’m not paying his rent forever, am I?”

Ernest laughed. “Fair’nuff,” he said again. “Guess I’ll find some use for him. Bring him in tomorrow and I’ll have someone ready to show him around. Nothing fancy, y’know, but as good as he’s gonna get.”

“Aw, Ernie,” Oscar cooed. “You’re too good to me.”

“Nah, baby,” Ernest said, looking extremely pleased with himself. He took Oscar by the jaw, pulling him close, and since they were alone, Oscar went willingly. He knew what was going to happen now. Ernest had done him a favor, and Oscar would make it worth his while or Ernest would take it back. 

Oscar kissed him, because Ernest liked to feel in control but he also liked to be desired, something Oscar guessed came from too many disappointing hookups with straight men who were desperate enough to cross the line. Ernest was, as far as Oscar could figure, somewhere in his mid-thirties and had been having poor luck finding partners who were actually into men for most of his life. 

Oscar didn’t actually know how old he was, and he didn’t want to risk asking, because if he asked how old Ernest was Ernest would ask him the same question, and while most men would like how Oscar was only twenty and they were much older, some found it off-putting, and Oscar didn’t feel like risking that. It didn’t matter, in the end. Ernest looked young enough for Oscar to ignore it. 

So he whined into Ernest’s mouth, pressing himself against the other man, and Ernest made a satisfied noise before Oscar pulled back, giving him a teasing smirk. 

“Lemme just tell Scott t’go home,” Oscar whispered. “Send the kids to their rooms while Mommy and Daddy have their fun.”

Ernest sniggered. His fingers were curled around Oscar’s belt, and his hands had been reaching both up Oscar’s chest and down below his waist, but when Oscar pulled away he stopped. He didn’t let go, of course, but he waited. That was another thing Oscar liked about Ernest, the respect. He saw Oscar as someone worth listening to, or maybe just someone who had enough self-respect not to come back after he’d been abused, but either way, it was nice. 

Oscar leaned back, enough so that Scott could see him, but not out of Ernest’s embrace. He was enjoying that, and even if he hadn’t been, Ernest could not be allowed to pick up on that. Scott was staring at him with an expression that most would’ve seen as disgust but Oscar guessed was closer to jealousy, but Oscar didn’t care. He knew who Oscar was. This was his own fault for being stupid and getting his hopes up. 

You got a job, Oscar signed. Go home now. Back tomorrow morning. Might see me, might not. I’ll probably spend the night here. 

What are you doing? Scott demanded. O-Z?

Getting you a job, Oscar signed impatiently. He almost said, I’m doing Ernest, obviously, but decided against it. Knowing Scott, unappreciative as he always was, it wouldn’t even have garnered a polite smile. Keep up. If I don’t, you won’t get a job. Way it works. 

Scott glowered at him for a moment longer, but he seemed to realize just how little power he held here after a moment, and then he was marching off, in a direction Oscar was only mostly sure would lead him to their apartment. Whatever. Words could not express just how much that was not Oscar’s problem. 

He was doing his bit. Scott could do his. 

He twisted back around, settling himself in Ernest’s big, muscular arms. Oscar gave a little sigh of contentment that was only a little exaggerated, running his hands over Ernest’s biceps. Ernest liked men, and he liked men who liked men, and maybe Oscar liked men too, so there was no harm in enjoying himself. The chances of there being anyone behind this particular building, Ernest’s building, who wasn’t paid enough not to care were slim to none. 

Oscar liked this. He liked being taken care of, he liked when his problems were someone else’s, and he liked to be appreciated for exactly what he was. He’d probably hang around Ernest more, but as much as Ernest desired him, Oscar knew all too well the interest would dissolve the second he got exactly what he wanted. Oscar, his, to keep? Oscar would be lucky if it lasted a week. 

Ernest liked to be wanted. But he also liked the thrill of the chase, so Oscar whispered, “Take me inside, Ernie,” into his ear, and Ernest did just that and later on he got them food and Oscar spent the night in his bed, only sleeping a little, and eventually Ernest fell asleep but Oscar woke up when the sun was just barely starting to rise and grabbed his clothes and a piece of bread before disappearing out of the window, leaving nothing behind but a scrap of paper on the nightstand with a heart scribbled onto it.

That was how it always went, and Ernest never had any sort of objection. He wanted Oscar to keep, but only in the way a man like him would want any pretty thing to be his own. In an instinctual way. An automatic way. Nothing else. 

It was why Oscar only visited Ernest when he truly needed to. It was why he let a good few months pass in between their meetings, it was why he bothered with having his own apartment at all, and it was why he needed Scott to get a job in the first place. 

So Oscar crawled out of the window, and he went back to his own apartment and took a shower, and when he came out Scott was dressed for the day and sitting on the floor across from the bedroom door, arms crossed. 

Don’t sulk, Oscar signed, before fixing the towel around his waist. “It’s childlike.”

It’s never enough for you, Scott complained stupidly. Nothing is ever enough. Those girls weren’t enough and I’m not enough and that man wasn’t enough either. When’s it time to stop?

“Oh, fuck off,” Oscar cackled. I’m not your B-O-Y-F-R-I-E-N-D. 

Boyfriend, Scott guessed, fiddling with his fingers, messing the signs for boy and friend together with a little twist. That was what they always did when they didn’t know a word, pieced it together with guesswork and the knowledge that it didn’t matter if anyone else understood or not. No one understood Scott anyway, and neither of them had ever met another deaf person since Scott’s first little signing class. 

The moment of neutrality passed, and Scott’s face darkened incessantly more. I know you’re not. You’re no one’s. That’s what I mean. 

I’m my own, Oscar retorted. That’s allowed. Go to work. Don’t be late. I’m going to bed. 

Didn’t sleep? Scott guessed, but it was mean and both of them knew it, so Oscar ignored him and walked back into the bathroom, waiting until he heard Scott shut the door before he emerged to grab new clothes from the bedroom they shared out of pure necessity and dressed before falling onto the bed they shared because Scott couldn’t speak well enough to explain away a second bed with only one room and a secret roommate. 

Oscar stared up at the ceiling. Then he closed his eyes, stopped thinking, and went back to sleep. 

“Oh my god,” Velvette wheezes the second Valentino stops talking, and then she bursts into laughter. 

“Bitch,” Val mutters. Velvette continues to shriek with laughter, rocking from side to side. There is no stopping her. She’d spent most of Valentino’s story quietly giggling, and he’d done an admirable job of ignoring her like he always did with things that got in his way, but there was really no ignoring her now. 

Not that Vox really wanted to. 

“Huh,” he said. “You know, Val, you impress me so much sometimes.”

“Oh, really, bab—“

“Yeah, I used to think there was no possible way you could be a bigger hypocrite, but somehow, you keep proving me wrong. It’s just… wow.”

“—y, fuck you!”

“Nah, you were the one getting fucked,” Velvette cackles. She’s crying now, tears pouring from her eyes, but she’s still grinning. “Are you like, a switch, or do you just fake your way through topping? Cause there’s no way you and Vox—“

“We’re making fun of Val for admitting he found being respected attractive when he does nothing but disrespect his sluts, not going after me, keep up,” Vox interrupts. Somehow, Velvette manages to roll her eyes while still laughing hysterically. 

“Fine,” she chokes out. “You’re right, though, that’s—fuck, oh my god.”

She gasps for air, finally seeming to calm down, and then promptly dissolves into another fit of uncontrollable giggles. 

“Is it just that you think only you deserve respect or did something mildly traumatizing happen and now you’re going to bitch and moan about that?” Vox asks. 

“You’re one to talk about moaning,” Valentino mutters darkly. “But, uh, the first one. It makes sense, just think about it. Why the fuck should I respect someone who was so desperate to be fucked that they literally sold me their soul? It’s fucking embarrassing. And then they freak out and act like I’m the villain, because I want them to do what they fucking agreed to do? It’s their entire fucking job!”

“You emotionally manipulate most of them into believing you love them and want to be with them,” Vox reminds him. 

“If a bitch is dumb enough to trust that someone in my position, an Overlord pimp in Hell, has their best interests at heart, then they deserve whatever’s coming to them. I’m right and you know it.”

“You’re one to talk, you’re a fucking idiot,” Velvette giggles. She takes a few deep breaths, wiping at her eyes. “My eyeliner’s totally ruined and neither of you are allowed to say anything because I needed that.”

“You don’t need to graduate high school if you can get through life by having a shit ton of sex,” Valentino says solemnly. Then he squints at her. “Also, you look like a hungover raccoon with gorgeous hair.”

“Thanks,” Velvette says. Vox is genuinely unsure of whether either of them is serious.

“I thought you graduated high school?” he questions. 

“I failed, like…all of my classes,” Val admits. “But, uh...oh, wait, dollface! School is a prison! And society. I was rebelling against the confines of their cruel world.”

“That’s not enough to get you uncanceled,” Velvette says. “Come up with a new pitch.”

“Come on,” Valentino complains. 

“Wait, when’d you get canceled?” Vox asks.

“Last week.”

“I thought that was fixed? Vel, you told me you fixed that.”

“I did. Told him to start working on a few excuses for next time ‘cause I’ve got that showcase coming up and I’ll be busy.”

Especially considering the display was destroyed and one of the models is probably a pile of ashes right now. But Vox doesn’t feel the need to tell her that just yet. The problems are already waiting. They can wait a little longer. 

“Good thinking, Velvette,” Vox says. “Val, you’re still an idiot, come up with something else.”

“I have,” Val says haughtily, or as haughtily as possible considering they’re all still curled up together in bed. “I’m considering starting a smear campaign against some of my lower earners to distract people.”

“No,” Velvette says. “I’ll do it myself, you’re an incompetent fuckface. Anyway, your turn, Etch-a-Sketch. Give us a proper story this time.”

“Fine,” Vox agrees. “Right. Well, I was living with Alma at that point.”

“Honey, I’m home!” Victor called as he stepped inside the house he shared with his wife, pulling off his hat and coat. “Oh, down, you.”

“Don’t scold him,” Alma said, appearing in the doorway. She crouched down to the dog’s level, making cooing noises at it. “Yes, you’re a good girl, yes you are, your papa’s just being a grumpy-pants, yes he is!”

“Don’t call me that,” Victor groaned, but he smiled at her all the same as he threw his coat and hat on the coat rack and slipped his shoes off, leaving them by the door. “The Petersons keep telling me you’re in need of a baby, you know. Apparently, Mrs. Peterson thinks it’s odd how you fuss over that creature.”

“Her name is Daisy,” Alma told him, straightening up. “And there’s only so many times I can go over to Ida’s for tea before it gets dreadfully boring, I need something to do.”

“Why don’t you throw a party?” Victor suggested. “Invite some of the neighbors over, some of the ladies from that sewing club you went to a few weeks ago. You do need friends, I agree with you there. If you’d like I could invite a few colleagues for dinner and see if you get on with any of their wives?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” she insisted. “It makes me uneasy to have anyone over, in our home. It’s all right, really, Thea. Daisy is a good enough companion for me.”

“I want you to be happy,” Victor pressed on, following her into the kitchen. Daisy the dog ran ahead of them, happy as ever to follow Alma’s every move. “You need friends, hobbies, social time. Aside from just Ida.”

“She’s so lonely,” Alma said, shrugging. “An old woman like her, you just know she thought she’d have a house full of grandchildren by now, and instead she’s lost her only children. And with all the dreadful things the newspaper keeps printing…”

“Why do you say? Was there another article today?” Victor asked immediately, scanning the counters for the newspaper. “I didn’t get the chance to read it before I left for the station today.”

“Thea,” Alma said, narrowing her gaze. “I don’t know if you should keep reading those.”

“What? Nonsense, my dear, I can’t imagine why you’d think that.” He darted into the living room, where Alma usually sat to drink her coffee in the mornings, and returned with the paper, flipping to the middle where there was yet another article about the apparent disappearance of the Louisiana Butcher. He yanked out a chair from the kitchen table, not bothering to tear his eyes away from the words, and fell into it. “It’s just an interesting subject, is all.”

“Thea,” Alma repeated. “Thea, look at me.”

Reluctantly, he glanced up. Alma had crossed her arms and was giving him an irritated look. 

“I’m allowed to have interests,” Victor muttered under his breath. “And besides, it’s good to stay informed without Alastor to give me weekly updates of the Huntsman’s every move. I’m just concerned for our safety, doll.”

“Those articles are accusing Alastor of being the killer,” Alma said bluntly. “Ever since he was killed, the killer hasn’t done anything. And the circumstances of his death were…suspicious, I must say.”

“Alma,” Victor snapped. He paused, folding the newspaper so that it wouldn’t crumple, and tucked it into his jacket. “Alastor was a good man. He helped me get my job. Because of him, you’re here. We have this house and the dog. Look around us, people are starving, losing their homes, giving up children, and we’re happy. He gave us all of that, asked for nothing in return, and you accuse him of murder?”

“Alastor was creepy,” Alma countered. “He only really seemed to care for his mother, he knew everything about the murders before even the police did, and you said yourself that he only helped you because he found your desperation amusing.”

“He grew to respect me.”

“You grew deluded. You grew obsessed. He started putting more effort into whatever little game he was playing in his head. You’re acting like he was your lover!”

“Excuse me?” Victor demanded. “Was it not you who mentioned visiting his mother not three minutes ago?”

“Ida is a lonely old woman who deserves to have someone care about her,” Alma stated, in that this-is-final voice of her that Victor had always hated. “And if we speak of debts, what of yours to her? She took you in for over a year, and yet the only one you are interested in repaying is Alastor! What I am doing is perfectly reasonable and you know it very well, you cannot simply talk your way out of this. I am saying this out of love, darling, I simply do not think this is healthy.”

“I have no debt to Alastor,” Victor insisted automatically. “And I do not ask you to stop seeing Ida, you do so out of the good of your heart and I respect that. We should be good to her. But, doll , they are both worthy of our thought. You found Alastor charming when he was alive!”

“I—I did,” Alma admitted, faltering slightly. She wrapped her arms around herself, and Victor frowned. “But…oh, his death gives me a strange feeling. It was…well, it was odd , wasn’t it?”

“It was a tragedy,” Victor said carefully. He got up, pushed the chair back, and stepped up to his wife, taking her face in his hands. “That’s all, love.”

“Are you so sure?” Alma asked anxiously. Thankfully, Victor’s assumption had been correct. She wasn’t angry so much as frightened, and that could be fixed easily enough. 

“Of course,” he said. “I saw, didn’t I?”

The two of them had been over at Ida’s when the man came to say that he’d found the body of a colored man in the woods, and he was looking for the man’s family. Victor had thought it nonsense. He’d gone to dismiss the man and tell him off for frightening Ida. And then the man—his name, he told Victor later, was Nelson—pulled out a pocket watch. Alastor’s pocket watch. 

Victor had sworn. Alma had dropped a glass. Ida had fallen to the floor and sobbed. 

It was no sight for womenfolk, Nelson had said, and so Victor had left with him to see for himself whether the dead man was truly Alastor or perhaps merely a particularly unlucky thief. 

“Dat’s ya fella, then?” Nelson had asked awkwardly once they’d reached the spot and Victor had frozen, staring at those haunting, beautiful, empty eyes. 

Alastor, Victor had noted, did not appear frightened in the slightest. Quite clearly dead, as evidenced by the bullet hole in his head, but not frightened. 

Still. It had been the most unnerving sight Victor had ever beheld. 

“He’s not smiling,” Victor had said dully. Nelson had just shrugged. 

“They ain't do that, not when they're gone like him.”

Victor shook his head slowly. “Never once have I seen that man with anything but a smile, and I mean that truly. Even when he was angry, even when he was working, he never stopped smiling.”

“Good man,” Nelson commented. Victor shrugged. 

“It was creepy. He was odd, I’ll tell you that, but he didn’t deserve to die like this. When’d you find him?”

“Late yesterday. I been askin’ all over.”

Victor had nodded. There was quite clearly nothing he could’ve done for Alastor, and besides, he had a lingering suspicion of why, exactly, Alastor was here in the first place. How he’d been shot, Victor wasn’t sure, but that would be something for the police to determine. Or it wouldn’t. There was really nothing Victor could do about that. 

What he could do was thank Nelson for his decency, ignore his not-so-subtle attempts to figure out why a white man such as himself knew Ida and Alastor so well to begin with, send him on his way, which did not take much convincing at all, and then follow the trail Alastor had left back to a patch of newly-turned soil that someone had attempted to place grass over before simply dumping some leaves over it. Sloppily done, but the transplanted grass was neat, and the dirt was packed tightly down. Alastor had been interrupted, but he’d had time to make a last-ditch effort to cover his tracks. And then, judging by his path and the marks in the ground around his body, he’d run. And as he ran, someone had shot him through the back of the head and he’d gone tumbling to the ground. 

Victor, standing above what he knew was a makeshift grave, Alastor’s pocket watch in hand, had made a choice. 

And Victor always saw his choices through. 

So he’d finished covering up the hole, did his best to wipe away the signs of Alastor’s mad panic, cleaned the dirt off the top of Alastor’s shoes and hands, and went to the nearest police department to report his death. 

Then, he’d gone back to Ida’s house and told her and Alma (as gently as he could, of course) that it was indeed Alastor, he’d been dead for at least a day, and the police were picking up his body now. 

Ida, the poor woman, had clung to him and wept like he’d never seen before, and he’d held her back, although he didn’t cry. Out of shock, Alma had said. 

He was a bit irritated she wasn’t so willing to dismiss his new hobby as shock, but it had been a few months. Enough time that maybe she thought he should be over this by now. 

Except Alastor had made him a criminal. Victor had known what must have been happening the instant he saw Alastor’s body, and if he was being truthful he’d already suspected. And he’d covered it up. He’d finished the job, gone to Alastor’s home, and taken anything even mildly suspicious before the police had a chance to, and he’d even lied to Ida and Alma. Victor was an accomplice now. He was an accomplice to a murderer. 

How would any sane person be able to simply forget that?

It was a tragedy. Even if Alastor was probably close to losing his job anyway, even if he’d really done this to himself, even if he had been a murderer. It was a tragedy, and it had destroyed and reformed Victor, and for some unexplainable reason, Alma refused to see this. 

Couldn’t she just be happy with her stupid dog? Couldn’t she just agree to host a few dinner parties so that Victor’s boss would be pleased with him and she’d have some friends to distract herself with? There was always the chance that she might find herself a mistress, and that was a problem, but one Victor could solve easily enough. 

“I love you, Thea,” Alma said, and she let him hold her close. “But I’m terribly frightened of all this, and I do wish you’d stop thinking about it. This serial killer of yours doesn’t seem to be coming back, even…even if that was unrelated. Perhaps he killed Alastor because he didn’t like the radio show, and now he’s fled to somewhere that won’t be looking out for him.”

“Perhaps,” Victor allowed. He liked the idea, of Alastor on the run, free and wild and alive, but he knew it wouldn’t have come true even if it weren’t for his death. Alastor had been a colored man with a job, a smart one, and he’d have had to be an idiot to give that up with the current state of things. The only reason he hadn’t been fired already, Victor reasoned, was that the radio had no pictures, and not many realized his complexion wasn’t exactly fair. 

In a way, Alastor’s wish had now come true. He was nothing more than the memory of a voice, so-called casing forever discarded. 

He had been thirty-four. Victor was twenty-one, with decades of his life ahead of him, and yet for the first time, as he held his wife in the house that he’d bought in his own name, with money from a job he worked hard at, as he basked in the light of everything he’d ever wanted, he was not looking forward to any of it. 

Alastor Landry was dead. He had been for several months. He would be for the rest of eternity. 

And Victor Nixon still wasn’t quite sure where he was supposed to go from that. 

Chapter Text

“Was that your only sin? Covering up a murder?”

“It was way more than one murder,” Vox says. “There were multiple corpses in the basement, I can’t even tell you how many because most of them were too mutilated for me to figure that out. There was a map detailing where he’d buried people. There was suspicious-looking meat in the freezer and a few pickled organs in jam jars. One was just full of eyes. I think he tried to knit something with someone’s veins at some point, don’t even ask. There was an altar to some sort of demon in his bedroom, and I am not completely sure the demon wasn’t just him, I do not know how that would be possible but I wouldn’t put it past him. There was also a bunch of notes for his show where he wrote down what details he could reasonably be aware of and what would’ve been too suspicious, which would’ve been bad enough on its own.”

“Huh,” Valentino says. 

“Yeah,” Vox agrees. 

“And…he was never caught?” Velvette checks. 

“Thanks to me, no.“

“How’d you even get rid of that stuff? Nothing popped up when you died?” she asks. Right. This is one of her areas, apparently. Maybe she was caught, Vox guesses. Or maybe she died in the process of getting rid of evidence. He could technically find out, he knows her full name and home state, but he also doubts that whatever he’ll find will be the whole truth and he’d like to hear it from her first. He’s not going to cheat. 

He’ll probably check some of the details later because Velvette is a pathological liar, but for now, he’ll wait. 

“I…the circumstances of my death were, ah, not exactly well-known,” Vox hedges. “I got rid of most of it slowly, over the years, but I think a few of the murders ended up getting pinned on me. But seeing as Victor Nixon legally did not exist except on a marriage license and a few documents that were proved to be fake as soon as someone started looking into it, there wasn’t much they could do. Anyway, the local police department was terrible.”

“What’d you need documents for?” Valentino asks. 

“You need a birth certificate to get a marriage license. It was the thirties, not the eighteenth century.”

“You’re so tame,” he mutters. “Domesticity. Ugh. Dollface, if you tell me you managed to settle down at—what, twenty?—I’m going to be sick.”

“Your brain is rotting away,” Vox remarks. 

“I said I was eighteen literally five minutes ago,” Velvette agrees, even though that isn’t technically true, but whatever. She had said it. “And no. I was not a child bride. It was the twenty-first century, gramps. Vox might’ve gotten away with faking his sex, age, and name well enough to get an entire wife, but that hasn’t been easy for a while.”

“Good,” Valentino says. “Marriage is so stupid.”

“We’re married,” Vox reminds him. 

“It’s more of a sugar baby situation,” Val says dismissively. “I only married you for your money. It doesn’t count.”

“You married me because I threatened to cut you off if you didn’t.”

“I know you’re boring as fuck, Voxy, you don’t need to remind me. That’s like the same fucking thing anyway.”

“The only reason I did it at all was because you tried to get married on your own! And don’t fucking tell me that was a sugar baby thing, even you can’t be that dumb.”

Val hisses at him, but he doesn’t say anything. Vox can almost hear him trying to think of a way to throw things at Vox while they’re basically lying on top of each other. Vox waits a few moments to see if he’s going to come up with anything, but when it becomes clear that he isn’t, he glances back to Velvette. 

“Anything happen with that girl, your friend?” Vox asks her. Something about the way Velvette says her friend’s name sounds like there might’ve been something going on there, and her stories do tend to fixate on her. 

But she also keeps bringing up her other friend, that Monique, and Vox isn’t sure what to make of it just yet. 

Velvette nods. 

“Just…” she trails off, then shakes her head. “Not what you think.”

“You have to go soon.”

“Excuse me? I just freaking got here.”

“Yeah, I know, I forgot something. I—you need to leave. Soon.”

“This is the third time you’ve done this.”

“I know, baby, I’m sorry, I’m just trying to play this safe. You don’t want anyone to find out, do you?”

“Don’t pretend this is about anyone. It’s her again. It’s always her.”

“I promise you, she’s not—“

“Dangerous? Obsessed with you? Crazy?”

“—a threat. I’ll admit she isn’t your biggest fan, but she won’t do anything to you. She promised me.”

“I—so she admitted to being dangerous. She admitted that was a possibility if she had to promise not to.”

“No! She just said whatever made me happy was fine by her, and that’s you. I told her that was you and she said it was okay.”

“So does she know?”

“I…no. But—“

“I’m tired of having to hide! If she’s really such a good friend, can’t you tell her? What’s the problem here?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Wow.”

“I would if I could, girl, but I can’t. I promised. And, well, if I break that, she can break hers.”

“You just told me she wasn’t dangerous! You can’t even keep your own lies straight, Kris! I’m your girlfriend, why am I not deserving of even the smallest bit of truth? All I get is you dragging me over here and then kicking me out, kissing me in bathrooms then making me hide for hours while you talk to your friend, a thousand excuses for your best friend’s insane behavior! You insist she’s harmless but you need to protect me from her, she’s never hurt anyone but you felt the need to make her promise I’d be safe! Tell me the truth.”

“Baby,” Krista pleaded. “Sweetheart, I’m just trying to protect you, okay? If you know the truth you’ll be a target.”

“If you tell me, Ginny will kill me,” Monique concluded. Her voice was loud and angry. Loud enough that she didn’t hear the rustle of fabric as Ginny pulled the latex gloves she’d brought out of her pocket and slipped them on.

“Monique,” Krista said. It sounded like a warning. Ginny used to wonder if Krista always knew when Ginny was nearby, but now it was evident that wasn’t true. She’d slipped into the house by an open window a few minutes earlier, and now she was pressed against the wall outside Krista’s room, listening to their conversation through the closed door, and Krista’s tone hadn’t changed in the slightest. “If you trust me, you will stop asking so many questions.”

“And what if I don’t?” Monique challenged. Ginny smiled to herself. She leaned forward, just enough to keep her back pocket from touching the wall. “What if—“

The wood floor creaked. Loudly. Ginny froze, bracing herself, hoping it’d gone unnoticed, but both Monique and Krista had fallen silent. 

“Kris?” Monique whispered. Ginny could hear her voice tremble. “Do you have a cat or something?”

Well, it wasn’t the plan, but whatever. She knew how to improvise. 

“Her mom’s allergic,” Ginny informed her as she pulled Krista’s bedroom door open. She grinned at them, Krista sitting on her bed, Monique standing in front of her, both of their heads turned to her, both of their faces frozen with fear and shock. “And you’re, like, such a shitty girlfriend. I mean, can’t you listen to one simple instruction? Kristy, babe, be real. You can do so much better.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Monique whispered. True to form, her bravado had vanished the second Ginny had made herself known. It was seriously embarrassing but expected. This was Monique, after all. “I-I’m sorry, just, please, don’t—“

“Monique,” Krista interuppted. “Shut up.”

“Thanks, girly,” Ginny said cheerfully. “And, please. I’m many, many things, but I’m not a snitch!”

For a split second, Monique almost looked relieved.

Then Ginny pulled the gun out of her back pocket.

“Anyway, you’ve got more important things to worry about,” she continued, holding it up so that it was aimed at the ceiling. She didn’t know much about shooting guns, but she’d fiddled around with one of her father’s and she was pretty sure she knew what most of the bits did. The one she held now wasn’t her father’s, because she was smart enough to realize that was a terrible idea, almost as bad as touching it with her own hands. But she knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who’d been willing enough to negotiate, and it’d taken an annoyingly long time, but using a knife was too risky sometimes. “Such as, y’know, the obsessed, crazy, dangerous best friend of the girl you’re secretly hooking up with. Honestly, lowkey rude of you not to tell me, but, again, we’ve got bigger problems. Or, you do. Mine will be dealt with really soon.”

“Ginny,” Krista said cautiously. “Gin, look, I’m sorry. I just—it’s just casual. It was just a bit of fun, and it never came up.”

“I’ve been here for five minutes,” Ginny told her. 

Krista winced. “Sorry?”

“Not as much as you’re gonna be really soon,” Ginny said, shrugging. “We’re gonna have a long talk, babe. But first things first.”

“Ginny, you promised,” Krista reminded her. “You said whatever makes me happy. You said you’d leave her alone.”

“I thought I made you happy?” Ginny questioned, giving Krista a skeptical look. “I mean, if anything I’m disappointed. I thought you were smarter than this.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it from you,” Krista tried. “I didn’t think to, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Then you don’t care if I kill her?” Ginny prompted. Monique made some sort of squeaking sound, looking ill, but Ginny ignored her. Her attention was focused on Krista. 

Krista gave her a long look, and then she glanced at Monique. 

Ginny watched as something in her expression hardened. 

“Remember two summers ago?” Krista asked her, getting to her feet. “When I convinced my mom to let you come on our beach trip?”

Ginny nodded. Her fingers tightened on the gun. 

“You said you owed me a big one,” Krista continued. “Anything I wanted, you said, all I had to do was ask. And I said I couldn’t think of anything, because I had a vacation with my best friend, so I was perfectly happy.”

Monique was staring at Krista. Krista didn’t look back at her once. 

“You said I could hold onto it,” Krista said. “You said it wouldn’t expire. You said to tell you when I decided.”

“I did,” Ginny agreed. 

“Ginny,” Krista said. “Don’t kill Monique. That’s the favor. That’s what I want. Just don’t kill Monique.”

“Kris,” Monique mumbled. “Kris, what’s going on?”

“It’s okay, baby,” Krista told her, eyes still fixed on Ginny’s. “Just breathe. You’ll be okay.”

“Yes, she will,” Ginny said. “You’re right. That is what I said. And I’ve never gone back on anything I’ve promised you, have I?”

“No,” Krista agreed, and she smiled. “Thanks, Gin. You’re the best.”

Ginny grinned back. “Love you, Krissy.”

“Love you too, girl.”

Ginny adjusted her hold on the gun. She flicked the safety off. 

Then she shot Krista through the chest. 

Monique screamed at the top of her lungs, but she was drowned out by the second shot. This one hit Krista’s stomach, and she fell to the ground. 

If she was still screaming, Ginny couldn’t hear her over the third and fourth shots. 

When Ginny finally lowered the gun, Krista wasn’t moving. 

Monique wasn’t either, seemingly frozen in fear. 

“Y-you—“ she stammered. “Y-y-y-ou k-k—“

“Yes, yes,” Ginny snapped. “Talk properly or shut up.”

Monique whimpered, but she didn’t try to say anything else. For someone who’d been so sure that Ginny was a crazy murderer, she was oddly hung up over being presented with the proof.

“So, I agreed not to kill you,” Ginny said casually. “But…well, I still have a gun, and Kristy isn’t here to argue with me, and I owe you nothing. So, keeping that in mind, I strongly suggest you help me hide her body.”

Monique didn’t respond.

“Say, yes, Ginny.”

“Y-y-yes, G-Ginny.”

Ginny laughed. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Here. Hold this.”

She held the gun out, shoving it into Monique’s hands. “Don’t point it at yourself,” she advised. “Or, y’know, do, I really don’t care. Let’s see, trash bags are in the pantry, she should fit as is…” 

She trailed off, crouching down in front of Krista, her back to Monique, and then rubbed her hands together, pulling the gloves off with a minimal amount of contact. It was easy enough, she’d made sure to get them a size bigger than necessary. She let them fall to the ground, then rolled Krista over, pressing a hand under her neck and discreetly checking for a pulse. 

Nothing.

Behind her, the gun clicked, and Ginny laughed, straightening up and turning back around. 

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” she said mockingly, smirking at Monique’s petrified expression and the gun pointed directly at Ginny’s chest. “As if I’d give you a loaded gun. Ginny Campbell doesn’t fucking lose, bitch.”

“You’re insane,” Monique choked out. “You’re—you killed her, you killed her, I—I won’t help you, you don’t have any more bullets, you can’t kill me, you—“

She broke off as she sobbed, clutching the gun to her chest as tears started to pour down her cheeks.

“I won’t kill you,” Ginny promised easily. “And you don’t have to help me, either. I changed my mind.”

“You’re sick,” Monique spit out. “S-she was your best friend, you said you loved her, I loved her, how could you…y-you’re a monster. You’re a fucking monster, you fucking bitch, I wish you were dead, I wish you were fucking dead, I—I—“

She gave up on words and screamed again, but now it was less panicked and more mournful. It was an animal sound, raw and pained, and Ginny almost flinched when she heard it, but then Monique broke into quieter sobbing, and Ginny heard it. The sirens. Loud and wailing and getting closer and closer. 

Monique was still holding the gun. The gloves were on the floor and could’ve been dropped by any of them. They were too big for Ginny’s hands. 

Krista’s mother should’ve been coming home from work soon. She hadn’t known Ginny or Monique was coming over. Ginny was over often enough Krista didn’t need to ask permission for her, and Monique’s being here was obviously a secret. Krista’s mother had always a weird thing about Krista having friends over when she wasn’t home. Ginny had been an exception, but Monique wasn’t, so no one knew Monique had been invited over but no one would think Ginny’s presence was strange or weird at all. 

Ginny sighed. 

And then she dropped to her knees, bending over Krista’s body and wrapping her arms around what had been her best friend in the entire world for the last time. 

And then, Ginny began to cry. 

Minutes later, when the police burst into the house, they found Monique having some sort of breakdown and Ginny screaming for help and crying as she desperately clung to Krista. 

Monique was arrested on the spot. 

Several months later, she was found guilty of killing Krista Dean and charged with first-degree murder and possession of an unregistered firearm. 

Virginia Campbell was the primary witness in her trial. She had a front-row seat at Krista’s funeral. 

“Huh,” Val says slowly. “Huh.”

“You know both of you keep saying your close friends/romantic interests from when you were alive were different in the same way we’re different to each other than the other Overlords?” Vox asks. 

“Stop saying slash like it’s a freaking word, oh my god,” Velvette groans. “You’re so old.”

“It’s getting less and less reassuring,” Vox continues, ignoring her. “Like we’re talking scientific notation for the percentage.”

“What the fuck is scientific notation?” Valentino asks. 

“Math,” Velvette answers, which is rare and probably just because she’s trying to change the subject. “It’s a way of making big numbers smaller or small numbers bigger. Basically gets rid of too many zeros.”

“Then why the fuck’s it called scientific notation?”

“No one fucking knows,” she snaps. 

“Because it’s used in scientific fields,” Vox mutters. Velvette twists around to stab the heel of her foot into his leg, which is usually what happens when he dares to know things that Velvette doesn’t think he needs to, which apparently makes him an unforgivable nerd. She will not accept the argument that he is literally the internet, but whatever. At least she isn’t wearing shoes right now. When she’s in heels, it’s deadly, especially if she hits a patch of actual flesh. 

“Whatever,” Val says. "Promise not to kill me in my sleep, babydoll?”

"She left the annoying one alive,” Vox reminds him. “You’ll be fine.”

“You’re both fucking immortal, dumbasses.” 

“Theoretically,” Vox mumbles. “Except with angelic weaponry. Which we can’t defeat. Except we’re got the Angelic Security bullshit to figure out.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Velvette instructs him. “I kept my promise, ‘kay? That’s a good thing. If she’d let me kill Monique I would’ve.”

“Okay,” Vox says. There’s another question he wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t think Velvette wants to answer.

Valentino, of course, lacks any such social awareness. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. “Have you found her yet?”

“Excuse me?” Velvette snaps. 

“Well, she isn’t in Heaven, chiquita. And you’ve never been very good at sharing your toys.”

“If I find out you tried to make her one of your bitches, I’m going to tell my followers your antenna’s fucked because you tried to eat a porch light!”

“That was one fucking time and I was high as shit! Stop fucking bringing it up! And I didn’t even know she existed before today, how would it be my fault if I did?”

“Everything is your fault! I employ three times the models I need because every time you get mildly inconvenienced you go and bitch to me about it and kill half my employees in the process! And cut the crap, no one believes all your stories about workplace accidents and falling spotlights!”

“Those light are really fucking shitty, okay, half of them are just taped up because we have to move them so often. You’re just mad about everything because you’re short as fuck!”

“You are ten feet tall! Being shorter than you is being a normal fucking person!”

Velvette’s voice has gone very high. She climbs out of the bed and stalks over to an armchair in the corner, yanking out her phone and starting to type furiously, glowering at the screen.

Vox sits up and pokes Valentino. He used to shock him whenever he was being annoying, but then Valentino started moaning. Vox isn’t sure if Val genuinely enjoys it or is just a menace. Vox is probably happier not knowing. 

“Your turn, Val,” Vox says. “Go on.”

“Bet you tied him up and raped him and then kept him in your basement for years,” Velvette mutters to herself. “Bet he got free and you got put on death row and waited for years and years and years in that fucking cell block for someone to just come along and kill you and that’s why you can never let yourself do nothing now because you did nothing for ages and you were so fucking bored.”

Valentino and Vox look at her.

She does not look back.

“Anyway,” Valentino finally says, as delicately as he ever says anything. (So not delicately at all, actually.) “I didn’t have a basement. And I only ever really dragged him somewhere the once.”

“Where’m I goin’?”

“Scott, baby,” Oscar muttered. He was in the passenger seat and his head was sticking out of the window, so it was really to just himself, seeing as there was no chance of anyone hearing him, especially Scott. “How hard is it to find your own house?”

“Well?” Scott demanded, and with a sigh, Oscar turned to face him. 

Your house, he signed. “Don’t be an idiot. It’s not cute.”

Scott frowned, but his hands were on the steering wheel, so there wasn’t much he could do to argue. A nice change of pace, Oscar thought, from the last two weeks Oscar had spent talking him into taking this trip in the first place. 

They drove on, through the streets of the town they’d grown up in, as Scott sulked and Oscar enjoyed the fresh air. 

So nice here, he signed. Air smells good. No city smoke.

“We could’ve gone to any town,” Scott said. Oscar was pretty sure he’d meant it to be quiet, and it was not, but whatever. “You don’t even want to see your aunt. Why are we here?”

“Because,” Oscar huffed. You should visit your family. Don’t you want to show W-A-L-T and R-A-Y-M-O-N-D how you’re doing better than them?  

“Dunno that,” Scott argued. 

“You’re just trying to be miserable now,” Oscar said. “You know I’m right.”

Scott shrugged. He’d only spared Oscar a brief glance, so there was no chance he knew what Oscar had said, but it was easy enough to guess. “Here,” he said, pulling into his parents’ driveway, and Oscar patted his thigh, beaming again.

He didn’t want Scott to throw a fit and stop letting Oscar into his room at night, so he didn’t try to kiss his cheek or make a more obvious display of affection. He was especially pleased with Scott right now, even more so as he reached down to give Oscar’s hand a brief squeeze, so he’d play nice. It was Oscar’s idea that they come here at all, of course. He’d been the one answering Scott’s father when he called, and he was the one who was sick and tired of the man accusing Oscar of using his son as some sort of cash hog, or…whatever the term was that would indicate Oscar was tricking Scott into giving him money and cutting him off from his family. 

Honestly. Scott had only just started making any real money, and it was only because of Oscar getting him the job for Ernest in the first place. Didn’t Scott’s father have the brains to realize his son couldn’t hear enough to speak on a phone?

Apparently not. So there they were. 

Scott turned off the engine, pulled out the keys, and climbed out of the car, Oscar pausing to check his pockets again before he followed. A few condoms and a joint were shoved into the glovebox, and Oscar joined Scott on the sidewalk.

G-O-I-N-G I-N? Oscar spelled out with one hand as he fiddled with a cigarette, sticking it in the corner of his mouth to free up his hands. Come on, Scott.

Scott had made up shortened versions of certain signs a year or so ago, and their names were included. Oscar thought it was stupid, but Scott had been happy with himself, so he let it go. It wasn’t like anyone else could tell the difference anyway. 

No, Scott signed automatically. Don’t want to.

Go talk to your parents so they’ll stop thinking I stole you. It’ll be fine. They’re your parents. 

Scott frowned. I don’t like them. 

Oscar groaned quietly. It wasn’t like Scott could tell. What’s the problem? Haven’t seen them in years. You miss them?

No, Scott signed again, without a moment’s hesitation. Stop. You don’t visit your family.

I don’t have any.

Scott winced. Oscar didn’t. He had a vague idea of why his lack of family would be upsetting and forgettable, but he didn’t get why people always assumed it was a sore spot for him. He’d never had parents, and the only ones he’d known were those of his friends, none of which seemed like anything to be jealous of. Scott’s current behavior was only further enforcing his point.

Your aunt, Scott tried.

Oscar rolled his eyes. She died years ago . During our last year of school.

Scott gaped at him. 

Why didn’t you say? he signed quickly. Oscar!

Oscar shrugged. I was an adult. Didn’t matter.

It had mattered when it came to his aunt’s absent paychecks, but Oscar had sold most of her belongings and made it work. He had little emotional attachment to most of it, but he’d kept her few pieces of nice jewelry for himself. 

He’d also kept her makeup, but that was less to use and more because no one would’ve bought it. Getting to use it on occasion had just been a bonus. 

He was pretty sure he still had that somewhere. Maybe he would stop by their old house. It’d been inherited by some son of hers he’d never met, so the chances that the boy, who Oscar’s aunt had complained of endlessly, had gotten around to selling the house were low. His aunt had one particularly nice lipstick in a shade his girls had never managed to find, and it wasn’t like he could go look at the colors himself. 

I’m sorry, Scott told him. I didn’t ask. I should’ve. 

No, you did once or twice, Oscar dismissed. I lied. But are you feeling guilty enough to go in?

Not anymore.

“Oh, fuck off,” Oscar muttered, and then grabbed Scott by his shoulders and literally shoved him forward. He then had to step back in front of him so Scott could see what he was saying, but that wasn’t the point. In you go!

I hate them, Scott signed halfheartedly, and Oscar rolled his eyes.

They’re your parents. I was told people don’t ever hate their parents.

R-A-Y told you that before his parents drove his brother to his death. 

“How would you know that?” Oscar demanded, throwing his arms up. “You don’t know what they were shouting!”  

Scott scoffed. Silently, which was another thing he’d taken to doing, and it was taking Oscar a while to stop finding it ridiculously creepy. You told me it was terrible. You told me he was a Q-U-E-E-R. Then he died. I’m not stupid. 

“Then talk to your parents and tell them you never want to speak to them again,” Oscar snapped. “And then we can go home. And maybe if you’re quick about it I’ll get over this headache you’re giving me by then.”

Scott hesitated. Then, finally, he clenched his jaw, marched up to the front door of his parents’ house, and knocked firmly. 

Then he turned back to Oscar. Loud enough?

Oscar nodded, although he didn’t need to bother because a second later the door flew open and Scott was yanked into his mother’s embrace, which was probably supposed to be a hug but looked more like a chokehold. 

“Oh, you’re here!” Scott’s mother practically screeched. “Oh, oh, oh! It’s been too long, you rascal, oh, we thought we’d never see you again! ROBERT! ROBERT, SCOTT’S HERE!”

Scott’s father did not respond to her call, but his wife didn’t seem deterred in the slightest. She let go of Scott only to check him all over, squeezing his face and pinching his shirt and tutting all the while. “Too thin,” she finally proclaimed. “And pale too. You look sickly. Not enough exercise or food. Where are you working? How much do you make? Have you been eating properly? What are your hours, have you been getting enough sleep? How have you been, is there anyone special I should know about?”

Scott just looked at her. Oscar was beginning to realize why he’d been so opposed to this in the first place. Back in their school days, he’d avoided parents in general like the plague, and although he’d met Scott’s mother once or twice, he’d never seen her so hyper.

Though, to be fair, she hadn’t seen her only child in about six years. Perhaps Oscar should’ve started pushing this earlier. 

“Hello, Mrs. Miller,” he said smoothly, stepping forward after an uncomfortably long pause in which it became painfully evident Scott had not managed to understand a word out of her mouth. “Lovely to see you again. You’re looking exceptionally well.”

As he spoke, he began to sign out an abridged version of her barrage of questions, and her brow wrinkled as he did. 

“Oscar,” she said, sounding much less excited. “I see you decided to tag along. Not that it isn’t good to see you, of course, but why don’t you pop over to see your own folks? I hope it isn’t too much of an inconvenience for me to speak to my son without interference for once.”

Don’t go, Scott signed, whether he’d been able to read her lips now that she’d slowed down or he just picked up on her change in mood. Oscar, I mean it.

Relax, Oscar signed. To Mrs. Miller, he said, “That would be understandable, but unfortunately your son’s grasp on spoken English has taken a considerable blow. I’m here to translate”

“He can understand me just fine,” Mrs. Miller said sourly, but she seemed to realize they were still standing on the front steps and moved aside, gesturing them in. “Scott, dear, are you sure you want your friend here? Your father wanted to talk to you privately.”

Scott glanced at Oscar, then nodded. “Yes, Ma,” he mumbled, stepping inside. “It’s fine.”

Mrs. Miller tutted. “Speak up, dear,” she instructed, and she marched off into the kitchen. Scott shot Oscar a miserable look, but he just shrugged as he shut the door behind them.

Think about how much worse she’d be if you left it another few years, Oscar pointed out. Surprisingly, that didn’t seem to help.

Or I could’ve never come back, Scott argued. Her back’s turned. Let’s go.

She’s not that bad. She worries.

She hates you.

Everyone hates me. I’m a queer, brown orphan.

And a whore, Scott added, but he was almost smiling as he did.

Not professionally, Oscar signed, and Scott laughed.

Come on, Oscar added. Let’s get this bitch out of the way.

“Oz,” Scott protested weakly, but his heart wasn’t in it and when Oscar took their coats, hung them up, and walked off, Scott followed.

As soon as he entered the kitchen, Mrs. Miller shoved a plate in Scott’s hand. “Eat, you’ve had a long drive,” she instructed him. “ROBERT!”

“Ease up, woman,” Mr. Miller said, clapping Scott on the shoulder as he walked in. “Good to see you, boy. Could’ve been sooner…be good to your poor mother, she misses you. I’d have never left my mother for longer than a week, let alone six years…”

“He’s been very busy with work,” Oscar said smoothly. “Of course, we both wanted to visit, but it just didn’t work out.”

Mr. Miller stared at him with a mixture of bewilderment and slight disgust. “What’re you doing in my house, you…you…boy. You…Otto, was it? Are you German?”

“No, sir,” Oscar said. “It’s Oscar. And I’m not German either. I’m visiting with Scott. We live together.”

“Huh,” Mr. Miller said. “You ain’t a queer, are you?”

“No,” Oscar lied. “A place of your own is expensive in Housten.”

“Huh,” Mr. Miller repeated. He wasn’t a particularly bright man. It was a wonder Scott had turned out as tolerable as he was, but not being able to hear his parents’ voices for the majority of his life had probably helped. “You a Negro?”

“I am not.”

“Not even half?”

“I am a bastard and an orphan,” Oscar said flatly. “I am of extremely questionable origins, give the impression of someone with extremely questionable pastimes, and am not the type of person I imagine you want your only son around. However, I am also the only person who’d bothered enough to learn sign language back when he could still verbally communicate well enough to teach it, so you’re all stuck with me. Cool? Cool.” I hate your parents.

Same, Scott signed. Can we please go?

I also hate you.

I don’t. 

Hate me or you?

Either.

Cute. Maybe I’ll return it if you’re nice to your parents.

Fuck you.

Only if you’re a good boy.

Scott swatted at him, but his cheeks were tinged ever-so-slightly pink. That probably didn’t help Oscar’s argument. 

“Hey, Dad,” Scott said, this time a bit too loudly, and his father made a face. 

“All these hand signals are confusing you,” he muttered. “Can’t talk well. Girls won’t marry a cripple. You got a girl, Scott?”

“He does not,” Oscar said after a moment when he’d deduced that Scott wasn’t going to speak himself. 

“I was talking to my son.”

“I don’t,” Scott said. Get him to shut up, please.  

“Scott doesn’t talk much,” Oscar said. “I talk for him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mr. Miller said firmly. “You’ll answer when I talk to you, boy. You leave for six years, not a word even on the phone, then come back out of the blue and make this asshole speak for you? What sort of man are you?”

“Scott can’t use the phone,” Oscar said as he translated the rant. Beside him, Scott twitched. “He can’t hear what you’re saying and he doesn’t talk much, so there’s no use.”

“I know you can talk,” Mr. Miller snapped, ignoring Oscar entirely. “Fucking speak to me! I won’t have a fucking re—“

Oscar fingerspelled that word, unsure if there was an actual sign for it. Probably not. 

“Fine,” Scott said aloud. “Fine. You want to hear me talk? Fuck you. I’m leaving.”

“You’ve been here five minutes,” Mr. Miller snorted. “After six years. No, you’re not going anywhere, and the two of are going to have a real long talk about the sort of company you’re going to start keeping if you want a decent life.”

“No,” Scott said, turning to leave, but his father grabbed his arm and yanked it back, pulling him around easily. 

“Right,” Oscar said to himself and hurried out of the room as Mr. Miller began to scream obscenities and Mrs. Miller screeched and wailed about her darling baby boy. “Right. Let’s just—“

He grabbed his coat. He pulled it on. He stepped towards the front door. He reached for the doorknob. 

And then he remembered that Scott had the car keys on him. 

Also, Oscar couldn’t exactly drive. But he was confident he could’ve picked that up fairly quickly, if he’d only had the damned keys. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, that little bitch,” Oscar muttered under his breath, and then he pulled a gun out of the inside of his coat and marched back into the kitchen. “Let him go.”

Mr. Miller did not even notice the gun until it was pressed against the side of his head, and then he froze, releasing Scott instantly. 

“There we go,” Oscar sighed. “Scott, babe, time to go.”

Robert Miller’s face was an extremely interesting shade of red. Remarkably close to the good lipstick Oscar’s aunt had owned. Oscar gave him a peck on the cheek, still keeping the gun against his head, and then laughed as his face began to take on a purple sort of tinge. Scott’s mother looked like she was going to faint. 

Oscar, Scott signed. Stop being dramatic. Let’s go.

Oscar shrugged. He’d have liked to have his fun, but again, Scott did have the car keys and Oscar didn’t feel like getting arrested for stealing a car. His current boss—what was his name? Chris? Carl? Who the fuck knew—would flip a lid if he had to get Oscar bailed out so soon after the incident with the cocaine, and Oscar felt like dealing with that even less than he felt like getting arrested. 

So Oscar stepped back, pulling the gun back but not lowering it, and then he turned and quickly walked after Scott. 

“Tol’you,” Scott mumbled. He was barely audible, but he was also clearly worked up, so Oscar just shut the front door behind them and climbed into the passenger side of the car. 

Drive to my old house, he instructed Scott. We shouldn’t stay here. But you need to calm down before you drive home.

You could learn to drive, Scott signed sharply. You don’t know how to do anything. You can’t drive or work, you’re lazy and cruel, you’re the one who can’t do anything! 

Scott, Oscar snapped. You are not angry with me. You are angry with your parents and I will not let you take it out on me. Now drive before your father comes out and makes me shoot him. 

Scott gave him a hate-filled glare, but he did. He started the car and drove away and once they were sitting in front of Oscar’s old house, he turned to Oscar, grabbed him, and started to cry into his shoulder. 

Oscar, quietly regretting his decision to wear one of his nicer shirts, rubbed his back. 

“You can’t trust them,” he whispered, even though Scott’s eyes were screwed shut. “They don’t love you. None of them do. The only one that really loves you is me, baby.”

“You couldn’t drive?” Velvette asks. She’s still sitting in the armchair, but she doesn’t look nearly as overly annoyed. Just her usual level of irritated. “How did you never learn to drive?”

“No car, no parents, I lived in a small town with friends who had cars and then a city,” Valentino says. “Why would I?”

“So that if Scott told you to fuck off you’d have a way to get home?”

Val shrugs. “No need.”

“He’s really good at manipulating people,” Vox reminds her. 

“Aw, Voxy,” Val says happily. “You do think I’m good at something!”

“I think you’re good at a lot of things,” Vox says.

“Nope, nope, don’t want to hear that!” Velvette calls. “No! Fuck! I hate men.”

“I like them,” Val says sneakily. Vox, still sitting up, leans back on him. 

“I know you do,” he mutters, rubbing the side of Val’s face. “And you’ll show me later. Now be good.”

Velvette makes retching sounds as Val grins. “Oh, papi,” he begins, but Velvette cuts him out.

“I will kill both of you. I will kill you and mummify your bodies and put them on display in the museum I’m going to put in your empty apartments. It’s going to tell the story of my rise to power as the most powerful Overlord. It’s going to be badass as fuck. And you’ll never see it.”

“I’m making a museum for the fiftieth anniversary of our alliance,” Vox informs her. “I’ve got a few storerooms with all the artifacts I’ve collected so far. But we can’t do anything just yet, it hasn’t been long enough. We don’t want to damage our image. And it’s not going to be me opening the museum in the first place, it’s one of my smaller companies that’s getting a grant.”

“Also, mummies aren’t real,” Valentino adds. “I thought you were old enough to know that. And, like, we’re in Hell. How haven’t you noticed?”

For one long, long moment, Velvette and Vox are entirely silent as they stare at each other.

“What?” Val finally asks. “What, Vox, don’t tell me you too…you’re supposed to be the smart one! Come on, you would know if dust people were walking around covered in tape!”

“Val,” Vox says slowly. “Mummies are real.”

Val scoffs. “Please. I know how to tell when something’s just special effects and makeup.”

“Val,” Velvette says. “Mummies are real. Mummification is the process Ancient Egyptians used to preserve their important bodies. They are not alive , they’re dead bodies wrapped in cloth, but they’re real.”

“No,” Valentino says slowly. “No, Velvy, think about it. That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone do that?”

“I think it was a religious thing.”

“That’s stupid.”

“People used to eat mummies, did you know—“

“Vox, shut the fuck up, no one cares about your trivia. Shitface, people do a lot of weird things. This is what you refuse to believe?”

“Yes,” he says. “And I like your trivia, guapo. She’s just jealous.”

“Let it go,” Vox sighs. 

“But—“

“Vel, you know he’s not going to believe anything we show him. Think about how long it took us to convince him the Earth isn’t flat. Do you really want to do that again?”

“I’d rather stab myself with my own arm,” she admits reluctantly. 

“I’m still not certain about that,” Valentino mutters. 

“And I’m pretty sure you’re rephrasing everything you tell us you said back then to make yourself sound more eloquent, but I wasn’t going to point it out,” Velvette snaps back. “Vox, you go. I can’t listen to his voice anymore. Tell me about getting rid of Alastor’s leftovers or whatever. I could use the inspiration, I mostly threw everything in ditches or lakes.”

Vox ignores whatever Spanish insults Valentino’s muttering under his breath. “Sure,” he says. “I did have to get creative.”

“Nixon! Hold on!”

“Quite busy, I’m afraid, I’ve got to—“

“It’ll only take a moment.”

“Mr. Torres, I’ve just got to—“

“Nixon,” his sort-of boss snapped, crossing his arms, and finally Victor gave up on his attempt to duck out early. “I’ve got to head home. You’re not leaving early, we don’t have enough people to keep everything covered.”

“Yes, sir,” Victor muttered, resigned. It wasn’t like he’d been trying to get out early for the last two weeks, or that Mr. Torres had been ducking out after lunchtime for as long as Victor had been working with him. For a man who counted on his employees to assure his wife that he was still at work late at night, he didn’t offer any sort of encouragement for them to do so. “I’ll be here.”

“Good,” Mr. Torres huffed. “Look, boy, we’re glad to have you here, it was risky enough keeping the half-breed where someone might’ve recognized his voice, but even he knew to keep out of trouble. You can’t be running off every afternoon. Terrible work ethic.”

“I need to run off once , sir,” Victor said through gritted teeth. “I have not been allowed to do so.”

“Take a hint, then,” Mr. Torres said harshly. “I’m going. If I find out you’ve left, or even tried to, then make no mistake. You’ll be gone, Nixon. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I could replace you in a second and we both know it.”

“Yes, sir,” Victor said and watched as Mr. Torres walked out of the building without a second thought.

It’d gone exactly how he’d expected it to, exactly how he’d planned, but that didn’t mean the events didn’t infuriate him.

“Tough luck, Nixon,” a man said from behind him. “Oh, and Nancy told me to invite you and the missus for dinner tomorrow night if you’re free?”

“Of course,” Victor agreed, less because he had any desire whatsoever to make small talk with Peterson and his wife, but more because he didn’t have much of a choice. He’d heard the whispers over whether or not his wife was real, he knew his less-than-masculine appearance was bothering some of his coworkers, especially since he’d gotten promoted in Alastor’s absence, and it was probably about time he proved Alma’s existence. “I’ll speak to her tonight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I should get to the overload of work Mr. Torres reminded me of.”

Peterson clapped him on the shoulder and nodded, and Victor hurried off, already planning how he was going to slip off. 

Mrs. Torres, if memory served him correctly, was going home to his wife for once. Apparently, she’d wanted him to take off early ‘for once’ because he always ‘worked so late’, but Victor didn’t particularly care. All he knew was that both Mr. and Mrs. Torres would be home, the back door of the studio was always unlocked, and he had forty minutes before he’d be missed. 

“Where are you going, Mr. Nixon?” someone called after him as he opened the door, but he didn’t even bother to turn around.

“Smoke break!” he called back. “I’ll be back in a few, don’t fret.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. As soon as he was in his car, driving off down the street, Victor lit himself a cigarette, sticking it in his mouth before focusing on the street ahead of him. He couldn’t afford to get into some stupid accident now, considering what he'd stashed in his car the night before.

He tapped his fingers lightly on the wheel, nervous despite his meticulous planning. The cigarette didn’t help. He’d taken up the habit a few years earlier, around the same time he’d gotten the promotion, and he still wasn’t all too fond of it. It helped him fit in, and it helped him showcase how he could still afford to buy them regularly in a subtle manner, but the taste was nasty and he didn’t like the way inhaling the smoke made him feel.

Alma had mentioned finding the smoke attractive once or twice, but she didn’t much like kissing him anymore so he didn’t much bother smoking unless he was at work or he needed to disappear without being questioned. Victor hadn’t figured out a way to fake that smell yet, so at least for now, he was stuck with the taste.

There was a chance they’d make his voice deeper, as he got older, but that only seemed to come true with very old men and even if he was sticking to his lies surrounding his age, that still meant he was presumed to be about twenty-two or twenty-three, instead of twenty-five. A man of twenty-two years should still look like a man, and even though Victor was usually dismissed as an unimpressive fellow who may or may not be lying about managing to find a wife, it still worried him.

It worried him almost as much as Mr. Torres had when he’d grabbed Victor by the shoulders to congratulate him on a good show two days earlier. Almost as much as when Mr. Torres had paused, much too close to Victor, touching Victor, and opened his mouth like he was about to ask something before shaking his head quickly and walking off.

So. Here Victor was, pulling up and parking behind the Torres resident and leaning back, grabbing a package out of the backseat as he glanced around, checking to ensure Mr. Torres’s car was parked out the front. It was, right next to his wife’s. Alma had been on him about that lately, she couldn’t see why she didn’t have a car of her own, but maybe if Victor played his cards right he’d be able to make that happen. Pleasing Alma had been less and less rewarding lately, but not angering her still had its benefits, such as a single moment’s peace. 

Well, you got yourself into this, my young friend! Victor imagined Alastor saying cheerily. It was all too easy to picture Alastor, lounging in the seat beside him, smiling amusedly as he watched Victor struggle. I always thought it was a poor decision, would’ve done you some good to listen.

“Shut up,” Victor muttered. “You never said anything.”

I didn’t have to! Alastor laughed. You knew all the same. Do you really still refuse to accept just how much you clung to me? How much you still do? Even our old coworkers noticed , haven’t you noticed why they still shy away? They can tell, my dear. Your lovely wife can tell as well.

“You’re dead,” Victor said to himself. “You’ve been dead for three years and I’m just trying to get rid of your mess. You should be grateful.”

I am grateful , the non-existent Alastor assured him, with the same earnest expression and wide smile Victor had watched him don every time he needed something from someone. Really, it must be so hard. The lengths you’re going to, potentially throwing yourself under a knife headed for a dead man’s back. It’s admirable, truly.

“I know you’d be pissed if you were caught,” Victor mumbled, glancing up through the windows of the house. He could just make out Mr. and Mrs. Torres, although from their positioning he’d guess they’re fighting. Good. They’d be distracted, then. He hadn’t been looking forward to watching them be intimate. “Now be quiet. We’ve got work to do.”

Don’t let me keep you! Not-Alastor called after him as Victor climbed out of the car and pulled his hat down over his eyes. Avenge me, soldier!

“This isn’t even an accurate delusion,” Victor remarked, strolling up to the house. “The real Alastor would’ve already killed me if he knew I replaced him at the studio.” He glanced into the window, checking to make sure the man and woman of the house were still verbally abusing each other, and then pulled a knife out of his pocket, using it to wiggle the kitchen window open. 

When he automatically looked back for Alastor’s response, he saw nothing but an empty car.

“Bastard heathen,” Victor huffed. “Lucky I never had to meet your father, if the apple really doesn’t fall far.”

He dropped the basket of Alastor’s leftovers on the stove, before pulling out a matchbox and lighting match after match, tossing each one into the house regardless of if they lit properly or not. All that mattered was sending the house on fire as soon as possible. 

After a minute of this, Victor reached in and turned the stove dial, then yanked his arm back immediately as the flames roared up, just barely escaping setting himself aflame. 

Seconds later, half the kitchen was burning, with the gas-soaked rags wrapped around Alastor’s special brand of pickles doing their job marvelously. Victor was slightly tempted to stay and appreciate his handiwork, but he knew better. The second the kitchen was engulfed in flames, he was back in his car, speeding away. He didn’t bother slowing and tidying himself until he was several blocks away. If anyone was watching, they’d have gone to help the Torreses. They wouldn’t have bothered with chasing Victor.

He’d be safe. He’d be back in the studio in the next few minutes, the smell of cigarette smoke covering the smell of the fire, and then he’d be on air and no one would be any wiser. His voice was the only recognizable thing about him, and no one would’ve heard him speak. If someone had caught a glimpse of him, they’d have thought him a younger boy, and they wouldn’t be about to go looking for a grown man. 

Victor took a few deep breaths, trying to steady his hands. He was shaking, he realized, but not from fear. He was shaking with excitement. 

“How’s that, Alastor?” Victor whispered to himself. “You’re not special. I can be terrible too. I can be heartless and cruel and I can destroy everything you built. And I can keep it intact.”

Victor couldn’t imagine what Alastor would say to that. He couldn’t imagine what Alastor would’ve said to a lot of things. Victor hadn’t really known him that well, in the end. 

But he was learning. Alastor was a good teacher, alive or dead, and Victor was learning.

Later that night, after Alma had fallen asleep, Victor got out of bed and went outside to sit in the front room. He sat on the couch, staring out the window, a newspaper article on Roosevelt lying forgotten in his lap.

When Alma came down the next morning, he didn’t even bother pretending he’d just gotten up early. 

Chapter Text

“Unoriginal,” Velvette mutters. “A fucking fire? So boring.”

“And you were, what, twenty-four?” Valentino adds. “ That was your first murder? It wasn’t even properly done!”

“Okay, shut the fuck up,” Vox complains. “You didn’t murder anyone for a bit either. We can’t all be teenage serial killers.”

“I ordered my first hit on a guy when I was twenty,” Val says. “When I was twenty-one some guy I was fucking needed to prove a point about some shit, don’t ask, I was really fucking high so I didn’t actually get the point of it all, but he had me beat this girl to death for fucking him over.”

“Mildly interesting,” Velvette concedes. “Why didn’t you tell us about that? All you drone on about is that deaf boytoy of yours.”

“Eh, Scott was always a bitch about me being baked, so I kept it at a minimal around him,” Valentino explains briefly. 

“So you only remember him because when you weren’t around him, you were drugged out of your mind,” Vox summarizes.

“Well, yeah,” Valentino agrees. “I was alive in the prime of hippies, babe. Shit was great . I’m basically immune to weed now, which is annoying, but at least I wasn’t boring as fuck.”

“You were during your teenage years,” Vox argues. He tugs on the fluffy bit of one of Val’s wings, mostly just to be annoying. They’re spread out on the bed, not tucked around him as a coat per usual, and Vox is going to make him regret that like he always does. He’s obsessed with Val’s wings in a way that’s honestly just weird, because it isn’t even sexual or manipulative or anything else like that. Vox just…likes how they feel. 

Val thinks Vox likes to bother him because Vox has a habit of stripping down and sitting on Val’s wings so he can’t get up or go anywhere. It works wonders when Val’s being annoying and trying to go kill things, because half the time he gets distracted by Vox’s lack of pants and forgets about his anger.

Val finds nothing weird, and Velvette refuses to hear anything that is in any way related to Vox and Val fucking, so neither of them have figured out it’s because he still has most of his nerves left in his legs. He’s programmed sensors of sorts into his fingers, because he really does need feeling in those, but it’s not the same. Vox is losing his sense of touch, Valentino is probably legally blind, and Velvette will deny it until the end of time, but Vox is pretty sure she doesn’t have any taste buds. 

He remembers how she burnt them off regularly as a teenager, and he absentmindedly traces the places on his chest he knows are ever-so-slightly discolored, and Vox wonders if maybe there’s some connection there. 

Maybe. Maybe not. He’ll probably never know. 

“I was fucking so many bitches,” Valentino is saying once Vox remembers he’s supposed to be listening. “And it was the fifties, so that was impressive . So many dudes chased me out of their daughters’ rooms with guns, shit was wild.” 

“I thought the fifties were, like, that cutesey cottagecore misogyny,” Velvette muses. “With extra racism.”

“That was mostly bullshit,” Valentino says. “And there’s never been a point in time when bitches haven’t been freaky fucks.”

“Sounds more like my time,” Vox remarks. “Except everyone was starving and dying.”

“Right,” Val sighs. “That was…uh…wasn’t there a war or some shit?”

“How the fuck do you not know about the World Wars,” Velvette mutters. “How the fuck .”

“I didn’t really go to school.”

“Oh, trust me, we can tell .”

“Stop bickering,” Vox snaps. “It was the Great Depression, Val. Everyone lost their jobs and starved to death. The war was after that.”

“Right, right,” Val says, clearly not giving a single shit. “Did you get drafted, guapo?”

“Women don’t get drafted,” Velvette says before Vox can answer. She gives him a quick glance, like maybe she’s trying to figure out if this offends him, but he doesn’t change his expression. “And he was legally a woman, so figure it out, imbecile.”

“Why so tense, babydoll?” Val teases. One of his lower hands strokes the lower part of Vox’s stomach, but his fingers don’t go for Vox’s belt, so he doesn’t bother shooing them away. “I could help with that.”

Velvette stares at him like she can’t figure out how it’s possible for a person to be so severely lacking in intelligence. “Didn’t you have the Vietnam War? There was a draft for that, too. I hope you got drafted.”

“There was a war, and unfortunately enough I was actually eligible for that one, because some fuckers threw a hissy fit about wanting to kill themselves a decade earlier, so they took away the one good thing to come out of racism.”

“Are you seriously mad about getting rights,” Velvette says slowly.

“I’m mad about being forced to enter a fucking draft,” Valentino grumbles. “I mean, I was on the verge of being too old, so they just marked me off for homosexuality. Or maybe it was because I showed up shitfaced, I don’t know.”

“Wasn’t that, like, lowkey super illegal back then?” Velvette asks.

“They had bigger problems,” Valentino says. 

“They threw you in jail, didn’t they,” Vox accuses, and Valentino pauses.

“Can’t say,” he admits after a long moment. “I don’t remember anything for like…four, five months after that. Maybe? Wait, no, if they did, I would’ve been sober. Guess I got away with it.”

“I used to hope that someday all of your sins would catch up with you,” Vox mutters. “I used to hope someone would finally show you reality.”

“And now that’d be a business expense,” Velvette guesses, and Vox laughs.

“It already has,” Valentino says, but he doesn’t seem angry, exactly. More…miffed. “I was murdered, cabrón. When I was only thirty years of age. Very tragic.”

“You said you were thirty-one,” Vox says.

“Thirty, thirty-one, who can remember that shit,” Val groans. He stretches, and Vox bats a wing away from his face. “I’m almost positive it was 1975.” 

“This is the guy you chose to build your empire with?” Velvette asks. 

“He did a lot of coke between then and now,” Vox mutters. He wisely decides not to mention that Valentino hadn’t exactly been his first choice. “And you can’t talk, he was like this when you came around, and you still agreed to it.”

“It was because I’m hot,” Valentino offers. Velvette rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. 

“Believe what you want to,” she says. “Anyway. Uh, where was I?”

“Homophobia.”

“Helpful.”

“Well, you killed your top bitch because she was fucking a girl, right?”

“She lied to me, that was justified. Sexuality is irrelevant.”

“ Oh , that’s what you say , but it sounds like—“

“Anyway,” Velvette repeats loudly, cutting Val off. “Right. So, I killed Krista, got Monique locked up for it, Ginny won and everyone else got fucked, usual shit. End of story.”

“Except you’re dead,” Vox says. 

“I was getting to that,” she snaps. “It’s called a fucking summary, you arse. And I got away with that. I get away with shit. But it’s kinda hard for anyone to explain away thirty-eight dead bodies and a burning building, in case you weren’t aware.”

“I heard a few people say they’re voting for Layla Eric.”

“ Please . Girl, that dress does not work with her skin tone. She’s pasty.”

“It’s so ugly.”

“Hideous.”

“Remember that one summer she spent ages trying to get a tan and came back looking like a fucking Dorito?”

“She needs to stick to pastels. Anything darker than sky blue washes her out.”

“We know Ginny’ll never have that problem.”

Ginny forced a laugh. She was barely following the conversation, too bored to keep from spacing out every few seconds, but that seemed to be enough to satisfy Claudia and Abigail, and they returned to chattering about potential prom queens. 

Her group had changed over the years, with quite a few girls noticeably absent, but her popularity had only grown after the incident with Krista. Finally, Ginny’s relationship with someone had actually helped alleviate suspicion. For all of the whispers and rumors, there was absolutely no one in town who’d think Ginny would kill Krista, of all people. She’d calmed down when it came to getting rid of people, now that she didn’t have her usual backup, but she could do pretty much anything else and get away with it. 

It was…kind of boring, actually. Even prom was proving boring. Her friends were all boring. The music was basic. Ginny’s date, a guy named Dennis who she’d selected based on how they’d look together in photos, had wandered off with his basketball teammates as soon as she’d made it clear she was not about to let him fuck her in an empty classroom and ruin her makeup before she even got her crown. 

Guys were getting boring too, honestly. Dating was mind-numbing and half the time she did it purely to fuck with girls she didn’t like by getting with their brothers or cousins or exes. 

That was still fun, at least, but the entertainment never lasted long. 

“You look like you wanna slit your throat,” someone whispered into her ear. Ginny barely stopped herself from jumping at the sudden closeness. 

“Christ, Liv,” she muttered, taking a sip of her drink. There was some sort of booze in it, but she hadn’t been the one to organize the spiking, so she wasn’t completely sure what it was. Something nasty, honestly, but she needed to be drunk for this. “If I find another dissection of my personality on LiveJournal, I’m going to kill you.”

“It’s not my fault you’re interesting,” Olivia said, smirking. “Unlike most of the people in this lame town.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were here a few years ago,” Adrienne interjected, shooting her a grin. She was evidently unaware that she was included in most people, although Ginny had guessed that from Liv’s fake smile and her own years of trying to get Adrienne to be interesting. “It was wild . Scary, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Olivia asked, clearly sarcastic, but it flew right over Adrienne’s head. Ginny giggled, not missing the way Olivia’s eyes immediately darted to her. “Like how?”

“Uh, crime, kinda,” Lindsey volunteered. “People going missing. A few died. And a house burnt down one time.”

“Really,” Olivia said. “Interesting people?”

“Lori died in the fire,” Deanna recalled. “That was a few years ago, she was friends with us. One of Ginny’s boyfriends went missing at some point before that…”

“A few months,” Ginny filled in. “But he was kinda boring, really, so it wasn’t like, tragic or anything.”

“Too stupid for you. No offense.”

“Yeah, no, totally. A blessing in disguise, honestly.”

“For real. Anyway, he never turned up, and a few other people have vanished, mostly our age or teachers. Track got shut down because all the coaches kept going missing, and a few killed themselves in the locker rooms, so no one wanted to do that anymore.”

“You’ve got all this crime going on and no one knows why?” Olivia demanded. “Seriously? Like, you’re not fucking with me?”

“Oh, it was Monique,” Ginny said casually, taking another sip of her drink. 

“Probably,” Adrienne said. 

“She literally shot Krista in front of me,” Ginny snapped, and the girls fell silent. “I know it was her. No one’s disappeared since she was arrested, don’t act like this is some big mystery.”

“Uh. Deets? How have I never heard about this before?”

“We don’t…” Claudia trailed off. “It’s, uh, complicated.”

“It’s not,” Ginny corrected her. She turned back to Olivia. “Monique was this annoying girl who spent years trying to prove she wasn’t a major loser, and I put up with it because she was seriously pathetic and I felt bad, but turns out I should’ve thrown her to the wolves because about a year ago she shot my bestie in front of me, and now she’s in prison and no one’s disappeared since. It’s not rocket science.”

“Holy shit,” Olivia said, eyes wide. “Ginny. Girl . You need to start telling me shit, that’s insane.”

Ginny shrugged. She considered saying something stupid about it being a sensitive topic, but then decided against it. She wasn’t going to contribute to the lameness of the night. “Never came up.”

“Never came—Girl! This is why I write about you!”

“No one’s gonna read about Krissy,” Ginny dismissed. “Everyone knows about her.”

“You’re doing great things for my journal,” Olivia said seriously. “Do you know how many people read it?”

“Yeah, cause you make me read all the comments during lunch. And then you message me with updates whenever I’m on AOL.”

“Whatever,” Olivia said. “Once I’m a journalist, I’m going to write a, like, biography of you and frame it as a study on teenagers or popularity or something.”

Olivia seemed to think Ginny was some sort of untapped mine for fame, and kept pushing her to start singing or dancing or join a band, some stupid shit that would theoretically make her a celebrity. Ginny didn’t mind that idea, but she probably wouldn’t do very well with a lot of public attention. Too many skeletons in her closet. 

Literally. Or, well, not literally , but whatever. Close enough. 

Olivia probably just wanted to get rich off writing Ginny’s biography, which Ginny couldn’t say she was against, but it wasn’t her problem. 

“And I’ll sue you for my share of your money,” she said mildly. Olivia laughed. Ginny said that every time the subject came up. Olivia had yet to catch on to the fact that she was completely serious. 

She’d get there eventually. Hopefully. If Olivia got dull too, Ginny might actually have to kill herself. 

“Anything else you’re hiding?” Olivia asked. “Any other deaths? British royalty passing as students? UFO landings?”

“A girl died during our eighth-grade dance,” Adrienne said. “That was kinda interesting, I guess. But—oh , shit! ”

“What?” Claudia asked. 

“Ginny,” Adrienne said urgently. “Ginny, oh my god, I just realized, Ginny!”

“Yes?” Ginny asked impatiently. “What? Spit it out.”

“You were pissed at that girl,” Adrienne said quickly. “Remember? Fuck, what was her name—Jean or something, whatever, but you were upset cause she copied your dress or something, and you were planning on how to get back at her, right? And you sent Lori off to check her out, and you sent Claudia to get punch or something to dump on her dress, and Monique wanted to help, and you ignored her, but she kept pestering you about wanting to help get back at the girl. And then she dropped dead, literally not even an hour later.”

“Shit,” Ginny whispered. She barely suppressed a smile. Framing Monique had been nothing short of pure genius, honestly. It just kept on working better and better. Half of this shit wasn’t even Ginny’s fault, Monique had been suspicious enough that Ginny didn’t need to bother. “You’re right.”

“That’s insane,” Olivia said, looking delighted. “You basically had a tiny serial killer at your command for years, and you didn’t even realize it.”

“I wish I did, honestly,” Ginny muttered. “That would’ve been useful as fuck. Better if she hadn’t killed Kris, but…I’d completely forgotten about that.”

“Didn’t she die in your arms?” Deanna asked skeptically. 

“That’s…an exaggeration. I mean, kinda. But so did Krista, and I actually liked her, so…”

“Right,” Deanna said, instantly apologetic. Just like that. 

Krista had never really stopped being amazing and perfect. Even if she hadn’t been that pretty in her coffin. Something had happened to her face, from a bullet or from smashing her face on the floor as she fell, and there’d been something off about her jaw. The makeup, completely different from her usual look, had only made things worse. 

It’d been weird to look at her. Throughout the whole long, tedious event, Ginny kept thinking about the last funeral the two of them had been to. How stupidly upset Krista had been. How Ginny had been forced to reassure her. 

What had she said? She couldn’t even remember. Something about only doing what she had to, probably. At least that had stayed true. 

She’d had to kill one of them. Either Krista or Monique. And she’d chosen the one who could’ve ruined her so easily, so effortlessly. She’d chosen the one who’d have been able to stop her. 

Krista had never been an idiot. 

Monique had screamed. Krista hadn’t, even though she was still alive after the first shot. She’d known. She’d understood. 

She’d made her decision. And Ginny had made hers. 

“You okay, babe?” Olivia asked, reaching out a hand. Her fingers brushed Ginny’s jaw, and Ginny outright flinched, taking a hasty step backwards.

“Fine!” she snapped, mortified by her own reaction, and downed her drink to find her face, which felt like it was on fire. “Christ, what the fuck is even in this? It tastes like your mom’s cooking sherry, Linds.”

“It might be,” Lindsey said sheepishly. “My brother’s here, so…”

“Fuck,” Ginny groaned. “As soon as they call Prom Queen, we’re leaving.”

“Alright,” Deanna chirped, and several of the other girls also voiced their agreement, but Olivia didn’t say a word, just studying Ginny with that strangely knowing gaze.

“I’m going to get another drink,” Ginny muttered and marched off to find Dennis. 

Forty minutes later, after a particularly disappointing hookup, a hurried touchup in the bathroom, and a few shots of vodka she’d talked one of Dennis’s teammates into procuring, she was in a somewhat better mood. She’d neglected to rejoin her group because it would look weird if she wasn’t with her date when her name was called, but that was no great loss. She’d already had to deal with them for long enough.

By the time she got back to the main room, her arm looped through Dennis’s, the vice principal was already halfway through her spiel.  

“And now, without further ado, it is my honor to announce this evening’s Prom King and Queen!”

“How’s my lipstick?” Ginny whispered. 

“Almost perfect,” Dennis said, leaning in. “Here, let me fix it.”

“I redid it ten minutes ago,” Ginny hissed, trying to subtly swat him away. “Not happening.”

Dennis frowned, but he straightened up again and smoothed his face out when she pinched him in the side, both of them turning back to the vice principal. 

“Students of Richmond High, your 2001 Prom Queen is…”

“I don’t care if you dance with the King, but can you not kiss him?” Dennis asked quickly. “It’ll make me look like a joke.”

“…Claudia Andrews!”

“Oh,” Dennis said weakly. “Uhm.”

“Oh my god!” Adrienne squealed from across the room, grabbing Claudia’s arm. “That’s you!”

“Oh my god,” Claudia repeated breathlessly, and stepped forward, grinning so hard it looked like it hurt as the vice principal placed that fucking crown on her head. 

“Congratulations, Claudia,” he said warmly, although Ginny could barely hear him over the cheers. 

Nearly everyone in the room was cheering, calling out, and clapping. Dennis shifted uncomfortably, trying to pull his arm free.

“Can you let go?” he asked awkwardly. “You’re digging your nails into my arm.”

Ginny didn’t move. She just stared, stared at Claudia and that fucking crown, stared at the vice principal as he called out the Prom King, some asshole jock Ginny had dated once, stared at her group as slowly, one by one, they seemed to remember Ginny’s existence, shooting her nervous glances and whispering to each other.

When she stared at Olivia, Olivia just smiled back.

“Excuse me,” Ginny said abruptly, releasing Dennis and walking as quickly out of the room, fumbling with the clasp on her purse until her trembling fingers managed to open it and retrieve a red lighter. 

It took her a few tries to get a spark. She was shaking all over, whether from pure rage or something else, and once that tiny flame caught, it was as if it was all she could see. All she should see. Nothing else held importance. Nothing else had value. 

She didn’t take her eyes off it. 

Not until she was shoved into the back of a police car and the door was slammed shut behind her, but even then it was only a few second before she scrambled up again and pressed her face again the window, watching with wide eyes as the venue burned, firefighters ran around, and teenagers screamed and sobbed in their tuxes and prom dresses. 

If she strained her ears, Ginny could almost hear her name in their cries. 

“That was…” Valentino trails off. “Hot, actually.”

“Do you that if you take enough pills, your brain becomes rotted enough that you have nothing else to think with but your dick?” Velvette asks Vox. “Like, scientifically?”

“It’s Hell, who the fuck knows,” Vox said. “You said thirty-eight people? That brings your body count up to…what?”

“I lost count at some point,” she admits. “And half of them were never found, so…somewhere in the fifties or sixties?”

“Same,” Valentino says. “The lost count part, not the fifties or sixties.”

“Different type of body count.”

“I know, and I don’t remember either of them, so hah .”

“Whatever point you think you made, you did not. You just sound like you’ve had a stroke.”

“I have.”

“He has.”

“Sorry?”

“He has,” Vox repeats. “Multiple. From the cocaine.”

“ Mostly from the cocaine,” Valentino corrects. Vox groans.

“For the last fucking time, that wasn’t on me. You were already high as fuck.”

“I didn’t pass out until you decided to fucking electrocute me!”

“Maybe if you weren’t so fucking difficult I wouldn’t have had to!”

“So you admit it was your fault!”

“You can’t prove shit and I admit nothing.”

“Boys,” Velvette interrupts. “Shush. Both of you, shush. And Val, you probably deserved it, so stop pouting.”

Val dissolves into a rant in Spanish that’s probably just swearing and threats, but he doesn’t move to shove Vox away so he can start throwing things. Vox thinks this is probably some sort of record.

“Velvette?” he asks. Something’s occurred to him.

“What?”

“You know how there’s a whole thing online about the possibility of us being a polycule or something because we’re all hot and bi? And how it’s bullshit but decent publicity so we mostly leave it alone but we don’t outright deny any of it?”

Valentino pauses his angry rant to say, “I’m pan.”

“No one cares,” Velvette says.

Valentino goes back to cursing.

“But yeah, so what?”

“You’re not bisexual,” Vox says, and her eyes widen. “Are you.”

Velvette is silent for long enough that Valentino finally realizes they’re both ignoring him and cuts in. “She dated all those guys, guapo. And you say I’m the thick one.”

“Yeah, she did,” Vox says. “And we both know how she is about admitting to mistakes.”

“I don’t make fucking mistakes,” she snaps, and then she bites her lip because they both know she’s all but handed the confirmation over. Vox is right and he knows it, she knows it, Val…probably doesn’t know it, but he should figure it out in a minute or two. 

“Maybe not,” Vox allows. “But you do things you don’t want to when you’re being strategic. You do things you don’t want to when you know you need to. You do things you don’t want to when you’re a popular girl in the eighties who needs to keep all her cards stacked or end up being overthrown and locked up.”

“Wait, you’re saying she played straight?” Val realizes. 

Vox grins at him, almost proud, and he begins to lean in automatically before Velvette snaps, “I did what I had to do, idiots. You don’t know—“

She falls silent as both Valentino and Vox turn to look at her. 

“Yes, we do,” Vox says. 

“The world has always had its stupid little rules,” Val sniffs. “You’re not the only one who had to play by them.”

“Fine,” she huffs, crossing her arms. “I lied. Fucking sue me, that’s not a crime?”

“ Why’d you lie?” Vox stresses. “It’s Hell, no one cares.”

“Oh, so he can say that, but the second I do, I’m a clueless idiot,” Valentino mutters. “Typical. Las dos sois unas zorras maleducadas.”

“Val, love how you make yourself feel smart by using a language only you understand, it’s so subtle. Vox, why do you even care?”

“He’s insulting us,” Vox translates.

“Yeah, I could’ve guessed that.”

“Not you asking the serial stalker why he’s stalking someone,” Valentino adds. “A man needs a hobby, dollface.”

“He only stalks you so much because you’re an attention whore and you get tetchy if he isn’t paying attention to you,” Velvette retorts. 

“Everyone pays fucking attention to me, bitch,” Valentino snarls back. Vox shoots her a dirty look, but he’s more concerned about how long he’s going to have to waste stroking Valentino’s ego (and other things, probably) than Val’s feelings. Vox doesn’t think Val actually has feelings.  

“Yeah, because you’re with us,” Velvette says. “I’m hot shit and Vox is loaded, what’ve you got? You’re a fucking moron.”

“No, he’s not,” Vox interjects, hopefully detailing them. 

“Really?” Velvette snaps. 

“I test both of your IQs periodically,” Vox informs her. “He’s not a moron.”

“What’s mine?” she asks. 

“131. You’re considered mildly gifted, which is not surprising. Results from a survey in Hell indicate most serial killers who remained undiscovered had IQs around that point or higher. Earth data is off quite a bit because they only knew of the ones who got themselves caught.”

“I got caught. That’s not bad, though.”

“It is not bad at all. And you only got caught because you had a mental breakdown and became unstable. If not, you would’ve been fine. Anyway, last time I checked, Val’s is 85, which is actually considered average. It was 93 the time before that, though, so we know the drugs aren’t doing him any favors.”

Or his eyes are getting bad enough that he can’t read half the material Vox slips into his usual reports, but Vox doesn’t bring that up. If he’s going to keep secretly tracking his partners’ brain functions, he can’t exactly explain how he’s been slowly administering tests. 

“Hah,” Val mutters, his upper arms slipping around Val’s shoulders as he nuzzles his face against the side of Vox’s screen. The reassurance that Vox has been paying attention to him seems to have calmed him down a bit. Vox kind of likes how unsurprised both of them are at this revelation. He makes a mental note to review this footage later, just to get a better idea of their reactions. If he knows how they respond to this, he knows what he can get away with in the future. “Told you. What’s yours, then, Voxy?”

“Impossible to determine,” Vox lies shamelessly. What? He’s not giving them that information; that’s bad for business. “I’ve got artificial intelligence programmed into my subconscious. I can’t really separate it, so I’ve got no way of knowing what’s my own intelligence and what I’m drawing from the internet and the VoxNet. Anyway, point is, he’s not actually a moron. He’d have to drop to 68 for that.”

He’d actually have to drop to a 69, but Vox doesn’t want to deal with the inevitable catfight that’s going to come from Val trying to turn that into a joke while still defending his own intelligence and Vel completely losing her shit. 

“I’m genuinely surprised,” Velvette admits, and then she gets out of the chair and takes a few steps forward before she practically falls into his lap, swinging her legs over the other side as she buries her face in his chest. Apparently, she’s decided he’s a seat. This happens sometimes, and Vox is not allowed to discuss it or even acknowledge it directly while it’s happening, but that’s whatever. He doesn’t mind it, even if it is kind of awkward. Velvette’s not that much shorter than him, so her back’s at a weird angle that’s probably going to start hurting soon, and Valentino is still draped around Vox’s back, and if he moves his head an inch, he’s going to smack or impale one or both of them. 

So all he does is wrap an arm around Velvette and start to slowly rub circles into her back as she curls her arms around his torso, and Valentino moves behind Vox. 

“Lean back, baby,” Val murmurs in his ear, and Vox does so, falling back into the pillows Val grabbed in his singular unselfish act for the year, so now he’s lying on his back with Velvette curled on top of him and Val pressed against him and curling around him. (Because Val is just really fucking tall, okay, and that’s necessary.)

For a moment, Vox thinks of Dorothy, but then he doesn’t. 

“You know,” Vox whispers into Velvette’s hair. “Lying about being a lesbian isn’t nearly as bad as lying about being a man.”

“You weren’t lying,” Velvette says, her voice slightly muffled by his sweater vest. (She despairs, but it was cool back in his day, and he’s sticking to that. People love classical. Vox is classical.) “You’re a man. Stop being transphobic towards yourself, bitch.”

Vox can think of a dozen retorts for that off the top of his head, but none of them will work, so he doesn’t bother arguing. “Maybe,” he says. “I am a man now. I don’t know that I always was. But I have always been a liar, my dear. We have all always been liars.”

Trust us . 

“Not Val,” Vel protests, which makes no sense until she finishes with, “Val’s too shitty at it.”

“I lie about so many things, pretty girl,” Valentino whispers. It almost sounds like a threat. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“I probably know at least half of it,” Vox says. Mostly just to break the tension, and it seems to work, because Val relaxes and bites his shoulder. He doesn’t tear through the cloth, and it doesn’t tear Vox’s synthetic skin, so whatever. It’s sweet, in a way. It’s almost like a kiss. 

“Vox probably knows half of it,” Val concludes. “But not everything.”

“I used to wish I were a guy,” Velvette says suddenly. “But I don’t think it was, like, real. Or, it was, but I don’t think I’m a guy. I’m a girl. I think some part of me just knew how much easier it all would’ve been if I were a guy, a white guy maybe. But a guy at all.”

“I was a drag queen for a spell,” Valentino offers. “I liked it. Good…good fun. I wasn’t high for that, I liked living it. But the bar I danced at got shut down, and I thought it’d stop being just a thing I did if I went out and found another one, so I stopped.”

“I used to wish I was a lesbian,” Vox admits. “But I didn’t know what a drag queen was until I came to Hell.”

“That’s okay,” Val says airily. “I didn’t either. Not really.”

“Oh,” Vox says. “You mean…”

“You used to work late nights. Even when we lived together, you’d work late nights.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“I wish that I was older,” Velvette admits. “I know my whole thing is being the young one, and you wouldn’t need me otherwise, and I liked my time well enough, but I hate how much I missed sometimes. You guys…you were down here for decades before I was even born.”

“ A decade, maybe,” Val says quickly. “I’m not that old, babydoll.”

“You could be her father,” Vox tells him. “I could be her grandfather. You could be her grandfather, with how you carried on in school.”

“People keep making edits of you guys as, like, my gay dads,” Velvette says. 

“We are definitely not your gay dads,” Vox says firmly. “That… eugh . That’s almost as weird as the polycule. First of all, if I was going to have a…whatever, first, Val is not fit to be anything remotely resembling a parent. Second, you edit his porn. He models your lingerie lines.”

“I am very aware of that,” Velvette says. “The one edit was kind of cute, though. I mean, you’re not my dad, obviously, but props to the editor. The point is, you guys had this whole other life before I was around. Before I was born.”

“I had a whole other life before Val was even born,” Vox says. “I was here for decades before him. It’s the way of Hell.”

“Forget it,” she mutters. “It was stupid anyway.”

“Don’t fret,” Vox insists. “Think about it, doll, what does it matter? Val and I were here before you. I was here before Val. We will all be here for centuries upon centuries to come, we will be here together for eternity unless we tire of it and take our own lives with angelic weapons. What are a few measly decades? Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“I guess it doesn’t,” Velvette admits, and then she breaks out giggling. “I guess it doesn’t, does it?”

“Nope,” Val says smugly, and Vox scoffs. 

“You got the same way over Alastor,” he reminds him. “I gave you the same speech.”

“Maybe,” Valentino says, in shockingly good humor. “But it’s been a few decades. Say, dollface, we should probably find you a lady friend at some point. I’ve got Voxy, but eternity does get lonely.”

“Maybe,” Velvette says. “Whatever. The two of you aren’t exactly couple goals, you know.”

“No,” Vox agrees, but then he thinks of Val shadowing him in his recording studios, him tracking Val across camera screens, the two of them screaming and fucking and fighting and taking whatever new drug their companies invent and waking up in each other’s arms. He thinks of decades spent together, he thinks of a time before they even bothered with separate suites, he thinks of cruel words and broken promises and betrayals and lighting one of Val’s sluts on fire like some sort of…fucking kebab. (Vox does not know how to cook kebabs.) He thinks of whispered confessions and scripted vows and a contract with several dozen extra clauses hidden among the nonsense, he thinks of that fucking marriage, and he thinks of broken antennas and those golden rings Val wears, but only sometimes, only on the wrong fingers.

It’s been almost fifty years, Vox thinks. Almost fifty years of him and Val, and maybe Val wasn’t exactly what he wanted back in the beginning, maybe Val still isn’t exactly what he wants, but Vox thinks Val wants him. Vox thinks Val has always wanted him, in that weird, creepy, fucked-up way of his, and Vox thinks that he cannot honestly say that about anyone else. He does not know if Alastor ever wanted him; he does know that Alma didn’t, and he knows that Val did. Val does. Val, despite all of his many, many flaws, has always wanted Vox, exactly as he is. When Vox stalks him through security cameras, Val puts on a show. When Vox slips trackers into Val’s shoes and clothes and guns, Val plays along. When Vox screws with Val’s whores, Val is flattered. 

Valentino knows Vox, and he wants him anyway, and Vox himself knows that he could not ever possibly be stupid enough to throw something like that away. 

So he says, “No,” but then he adds, “Maybe, though,” and Valentino laughs with delight.  

“Maybe,” he teases, his breath hot on Vox’s neck. “Mm, te crees gracioso, guapo?”

“Maybe,” Velvette echoes, and she sighs into Vox’s chest. “If you start making out while I’m lying here, I’ll kill you both, okay?”

“Define making out,” Vox mutters, and she elbows him in the gut. 

Vox doesn’t say anything, and Val doesn’t move any closer, just settles down and curls one of his wings over the two of them like a blanket.

They remain quiet for some time after, until Velvette’s breathing has evened out, Vox is only half-conscious, and he’s pretty sure Val is completely asleep. 

At least, until he whispers, “Scott left me in 1973.”

“Well, sweetheart, thing is, I thought you were gettin’ me Vanessa’s money today .”

“Baby, you know that slut. She can’t be fucked to do anything on time.”

“If I see her again before she’s paid up, fucked is all she’s gonna get before I shoot her between her legs.”

“Aw, Ozzie, d’ya gotta? She’s a good girl, really.”

“Tell her I want the money. She’s got two days before I call up Tony and tell him I changed my mind.”

“I—Oz, don’t, please, hunk, you know how she hated Tony, he don’t love us like you do, baby.”

“Two days.”

“Oz—“

“Two . Days ,” Oscar snapped. “Are you going to make me tell you again, Ginger?”

“N-no, boss, I’ll tell’er.”

“Good,” he said. He tucked the bills into the pocket of his coat, then glanced around. “Where’d Dolly go?”

“Think she wanted to visit that buddy of yours,” Ginger said. She was still pale, but she seemed to be regaining her composure. It was annoying, honestly, Oscar kind of liked it when she was scared shitless, but it wasn’t worth getting upset over. He was supposed to be going out for dinner with Scott tonight, and he didn’t feel like getting his hands dirty first.

They were in a new apartment, the third in two months, because for some fucking reason Hank thought it’d be fucking funny to frame Oscar for random petty crimes and he’d ended up tipping off some sort of mafia, or whatever Housten had in place of a mafia. Oscar didn’t fucking know, but he did know he was going to kill Hank as soon as he found him. Sure, Oscar had lied to him about Scott’s existence, and Oscar’s loyalty and his nonsexistent belief in monogamy, but that was no reason to be a fucking bitch about it. Even Ginger didn’t whine that much.

“Good luck to her,” Oscar muttered. “Waste of her damn time.”

“He a fag?”

“Anything that doesn’t get money in my pocket is a waste of her time,” Oscar said, but then he shrugged. Ginger made for decent company when she wasn’t trying to get one of the girls out of what they deserved. “Probably, though. He’s enough of a slut for it.”

Ginger gave him an odd look, which he ignored. As far as he’d heard, mostly through eavesdropping, most of his girls were still trying to figure out why Scott worked for him at all, and had no idea why they lived together. 

As soon as Oscar had started doing well enough for himself, he’d cut ties with Ernest and started paying Scott to do his financial work. Scott had always been better at things like numbers and reading and math, and Oscar didn’t enjoy being someone else’s bitch when he was running things, so it’d worked out better all around. 

However, very few people Oscar knew seemed capable of understanding that he could be something other than a straight man settling for a willing guy or a gay man forcing himself to be with girls for his reputation. It had taken Scott several years to be convinced of this, which Oscar thought was downright ridiclous, but seeing as he didn’t care what any of these whores though, there was no point in arguing with them. Oscar was in charge now. He could do whatever he wanted, so he did. That was the whole point. 

He considered bringing Ginger back to his room, but he was actually sort of looking forward to the restaurant, and he didn’t want Scott to get all pissy and ruin his night, so he waved Ginger towards the door and turned back to go find Dolly and send her back out.

He only made it to the hallway before he was stopped by the sound of Dolly’s voice drifting out of Scott’s open door.

“C’mon, baby, why don’t you talk to me? Ain’t no fair, I wanna hear that voice of yours.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he didn’t interrupt. Scott had no reason to get mad if he was the one making them late, and it was a good chance to see…well, it was an opportunity to…whatever. Oscar was just nosy and disliked the core concepts of privacy. He could listen to one of his girls try to get a deaf guy’s attention if he wanted to.

“Excuse me?” Scott finally said. “Uh—Oscar!”

“Yes, baby?” Oscar called immediately, stepping into the room and leaning back against the doorframe. “What’s the matter, Dolly? I thought I told you to leave with Ginger.”

He’d done no such thing, but he didn’t care. Scott was sitting at his desk, leaning away from Dolly, who sat at the edge. When Oscar flicked the lamp by the door on and off, Scott jumped up. 

What does she want? What’s she doing here?

Collecting money, Oscar signed. She’s just playing. 

“What the fuck’s that, Oz?” Dolly asked bluntly, gawking at the two of them. 

“Surely you have the sense to realize there are easier ways to talk to a deaf man than just shouting louder and louder,” he drawled, and Scott, somehow picking up on the fact that Oscar was doing something that annoyed him, punched his shoulder. 

Don’t be an asshole, Scott signed. 

I’m not, Oscar insisted. 

“He’s retarded?” Dolly asked. “That why his voice sounds so weird? What’s the point of keeping him if he ain’t good for anything, then?”

Oscar considered letting it slide. 

He would. He didn’t really give a shit what his girls said about Scott. 

But this, well . It was disrespectful, and she wasn’t even bothering to be subtle about it, even when Scott was clearly of more importance than her. 

That wouldn’t fucking do. 

Oscar grabbed Scott by the collar of his shirt, yanking him close enough to peck a kiss to his cheek before he let go, shoving him backwards as he walked towards Dolly. 

“Listen here, you fucking bitch,” he snapped. “You are a fucking whore, my whore, and if you think you can come into my fucking home and talk like that about my boyfriend, you must not have your fucking head on straight.”

“Oz,” she started to say. “Oscar, I just meant that—“

Oscar punched her in the throat. And then he grabbed her by her throat, shoved her against the wall, and pressed down. 

“You don’t talk back to me,” he snarled as she choked. “You don’t say a fucking word about him, you understand? You are a useless cunt and the only thing you’ll ever be good for is getting fucked, and if I see you again I’m doing to fucking kill you. If any of my girls see you again, I’ll find you and then I’ll kill you. Now get the fuck out! ”

He released her, but instead of instantly stumbling out, she gasped, doubling over as her hands went to her throat, and he yanked her up again by her hair so that he could punch her in the face. He would’ve gone on, probably, would’ve kneed her in the stomach or the tits, but before he could Scott was grabbing him and pulling him off her. 

“Oscar,” he snapped, face red with fury. What the fuck are you doing? You can’t treat her like that.

Yes, I can, Oscar replied. Obviously. She called you R-E-T-A-R-D-E-D.

Scott slapped him across the face. 

“Go,” he said to Dolly, and for some reason when he said it she fucking went . It was almost impressive, but Oscar was too busy trying to wrestle Scott to the floor to properly appreciate it. 

He finally managed to slam Scott to the ground, but then Scott twisted around, pressing Oscar’s head to the floor before Oscar kicked him in the side and wrenched himself free.  

I was defending you, he signed quickly, before Scott pinned him again. 

You can’t treat people like that, Scott signed back, then ducked away from Oscar’s fist. The next one didn’t miss, and he shrieked, trying to hold Oscar’s arms away from him until Oscar gave up and bit his wrist.  

“Fucking dog,” Scott cursed out loud, and somehow Oscar was on top again, sitting triumphantly on Scott’s chest. 

Ready to play nice? He teased, but for some reason, Scott was being even more pissy than usual because he didn’t give in. His face darkened, and he surged upwards again, the two of them wrestling as they struggled to hit each other before Oscar got bored and pulled away. 

“Come on ,” he whined. You should be thanking me. I was helping, baby, don’t you like it when I help you?

“Don’t touch me,” Scott snapped, still oddly pissed, and then he was on his feet and marching around his room, retrieving a bag from the back of his closet and stuffing random things inside. “I’m leaving.”

We have dinner tonight. Throw your pity party tomorrow.

“No, Oscar, I’m fucking leaving!” Scott repeated. I’m leaving you. I’m done with this. You’re a terrible person and I don’t need to stay here. I don’t need you.

Yes, you do, Oscar told him. No one else can even understand you. 

Other people know sign language! I am not the only deaf person alive, in case you didn’t realize! I’m tired of you treating me like a child while I pretend I don’t know what a piece of shit you are!

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Oscar snapped, but Scott had turned away, picking up the lamp Oscar had bought him and examining it for a moment before he tossed it to the floor, laughing out loud as it shattered into pieces. 

Fuck you, Scott signed with a grin on his face, and he threw his bag over his shoulder and walked right past Oscar. 

A second later, Oscar was turning and ripping the bag away from him. I bought you everything you have, he reminded him. You don’t get to take my shit with you on your temper tantrum.

Incredulously, Scott just shrugged, and then he was gone, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving Oscar with the shabby half-packed bag. 

Oscar stood there. 

He waited. 

It took him two weeks to be certain Scott wasn’t going to come back, and by then he’d decided he was over it, so he went out for a few nights in search of Dolly and killed her in the back of a dark alleyway, dropping the bag on her bloody corpse before he walked away. 

After that, he was over it. 

It wasn’t like Scott had been useful, anyway. 

“That was an impressively long way of saying that he got sick of being treated like a possession and left,” Velvette remarks. 

Vox, who is not actually sure if Valentino realizes most people don’t like being treated like possessions, asks, “Do you not realize most people don’t like being treated like possessions?”

“I do realize,” Val huffs. “Who gives a shit what they like? They’re the fucking sluts.”

“He wasn’t a slut, he was your boyfriend,” Velvette groans. “Do you treat Vox the same way you treat—I don’t know, what’s the fucking spider’s name? Coke powder?”

“Angel Dust, but that’s not a bad one,” Valentino muses. “And no, Voxy here isn’t a pathetic, whining junkie. He has actual value.”

“I’m rich and useful,” Vox translates. “Angel Dust is only useful so long as he does what Val says.”

“Also, Val’s in love with you,” Velvette says absently. “Whatever. You fucked around and found out and continued to literally fucking never learn a single lesson. Shocking.”

“I was defending him. That bitch was trying to force herself on him, and then she fucking insulted him, was I supposed to just let her go?”

“Why do you care about assault,” Velvette deadpans. She rolls off Vox, but she doesn’t move too far away, so he doesn’t take offense. “You assault people all the time.”

“I don’t care about them.”

“So you care about Scott, or you care about someone else having the audacity?”

Valentino frowns. Vox can almost see smoke coming out of the sides of his head.  

“Does it matter?” Vox interjects. “Val doesn’t exactly do consistency. Or common sense.”

Velvette shrugs. Valentino bites him. Vox ignores it. 

“I’m assuming you calmed down with the violence while you were still alive, though,” he adds dryly. “If you could actually kill anyone, we’d have single-handedly solved the overpopulation problem years ago.”

“I know what I’m doing, Voxy,” Valentino insists. 

Vox doubts that very much. 

“And no, could you imagine? No Exterminations? What would I even threaten people with? Besides, the vacation is nice, and don’t you always say safety is bad for business?”

“Fear makes for good television,” Vox agrees. “Nothing like some death and destruction to really get those dead hearts pumping.”

“Really don’t think leaving your lowest earners in an oversized gift box outside the Tower is earning you any favor with the fucking Exorcists,” Velvette remarks. 

“You don’t know that,” Vox mutters defensively. Valentino rubs his shoulder. 

“I’m sure they enjoy your present, papi,” he says smoothly. “Velvy’s just being a bitch.”

“Once again, not my fucking name. And you think it’s stupid too, you told me yourself.”

“Well,” Valentino snaps. Vox is pretty sure he squeaks. “At the very least, it’s good motivation for the employees.”

“Spoken like a man who really doesn’t want to pay for his own designer sex toys,” Velvette says absentmindedly. 

“His what now?” Vox demands. 

“Asmodeus just came out with a new line,” Valentino says helpfully. “There’s a shock vibrator, it’s like it was made for you, amorcito.”

Vox considers refusing on principle, but it’s not like Valentino isn’t going to buy them on his own, and this way, Vox will be involved in the unboxing. “Huh. I’ll take a look later.”

“There you go, baby,” Valentino purrs into his ear. “Get them here by tonight, and maybe we can have a little fun.”

Vox’s claws spark. Velvette rolls her eyes and scooches farther away. 

“C’mon, out with it,” she says. “Tell us whatever weird story you’ve got about whatever terrible things you put your wife through because you were pining over a dead guy twice your age.”

“He wasn’t twice my age,” Vox snapped. “He was thirteen years older than me, and I was a grown adult, and we weren’t even in a fucking relationship so it doesn’t matter.”

“You just said you were seventeen.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Fuck, okay. Relax.”

“Whatever,” Vox says. “And she got herself into plenty of shit, by the way. It didn’t all have to do with me, even if it fucking should’ve.”

“You don’t sound bitter at all.”

“Velvette, if you interrupt me again—“

“Baby,” Valentino says soothingly. “You’re being a cunt. Get out with it.”

“Fine. She cheated on me.”

“Mista…Nixon, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Come with me.”

“Is there a problem?”

“‘Course not, nothing of the sort. Perfectly healthy, the both of them, now come along, Papa.”

Victor wrinkled his nose, but he got to his feet, tossing aside the newspaper he’d been attempting to amuse himself with for the better part of the night. Despite everything, there was never a chance of his calming down enough to sleep, and even if there was, he wouldn’t have dared. Victor hated hospitals with a passion, and that passion alone was enough for him to resent Alma. 

He followed the man back to Alma’s room, where she was lying in a hospital bed, a bundle cradled to her chest. There were other women in the room, but the beds near Alma’s were mostly empty, and only a few doctors were still bustling around, so Victor did not bother pretending to be pleased as he grabbed a plastic chair and sat by her bed. 

“So,” he said stiffly. “You lived.”

“Please, Victor,” Alma muttered, eyes on the wrinkly pink creature in her arms. “Don’t be so emotional, I’m perfectly all right.”

“You’re an insufferable woman,” he snapped in a low voice, and Alma frowned. 

“Your daughter’s name is Dorothy,” she informed him. “I know you were dying to hear it.”

“Call your creature mine again and I’ll be gone before you have to fill out the birth certificate,” he said. “You ought to be more careful when speaking to the person who will be ensuring the brat eats.”

“And you ought to be kinder to your wife, but we all have our faults,” she replied. “She’s six pounds, eleven ounces.”

“Is that fat for a baby?” Victor asked. 

“No. Almost perfectly average.”

“Good. Nothing else you’re going to make me pay for?”

“I could always use a car,” she mused. 

“No,” he said flatly. “If I’d known you were going to be so expensive, I would’ve reconsidered. How long do I have to wait until it’s acceptable to return to work?”

“Probably longer than two minutes,” she said. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped. “Do you expect me to ignore how that bastard is not mine?”

“Yes,” she replied mildly. “Unless, of course, you can come up with a good reason as to why you’re so sure?”

“I can’t believe you,” he seethed, ripping his hat off his head. “You—you lying, filthy whore.”

“We are in a hospital, Victor, and I’ll remind you to hold your tongue,” Alma said stiffly, giving him a sharp look. “Now hold your daughter before the doctor gets suspicious.”

“No,” Victor spat out, and Alma leaned over to press the baby into his arms anyway. “Al, if you give me that baby, I am going to kill it like the animal it is.”

Hearing this, she froze at once, somehow sensing the truth in his words, and she immediately returned the child to her chest, covering it protectively. 

“If you hurt her, I will see you dead,” Alma said pleasantly, but her voice was strained. “Do you understand?”

“I won’t,” he said. “So long as you give me no reason to. But I will not play house with you, woman. That is not my child, and if your child is not mine, then to me, you are no longer my wife.”

“You can’t,” she said, looking shaken for the first time, and he smiled cruelly. 

“I could be gone from this place by noon, Alma, dearest,” he warned her. “Fortunately for you, I enjoy it here, so I do not care if you remain in my house. But make no mistake, any privileges I once granted you are gone."  

She paused. “I take it to mean that you want the bed?”

“I want the bed,” he snapped. “It’s my house, I pay the bills, I want the damned bed.”

“I never said you couldn’t sleep in the bed. You’re the one who fled to the couch,” she retorted. 

“Well, I’m sick and tired of the couch,” he said hotly. “I’ve been on the couch for two fucking years, I want the bed.”

“We’ve got a spare room,” she reminded him. 

“We had a spare room,“ he corrected. “Now we need a nursery. Next time you decide to try out new morals, you’d better take a few precautions, because we don’t have room for another one of these.”

“She’s a person, you heartless brute,” Alma muttered. “And what morals are you on about?”

“I will not marry a man,” Victor recited mockingly, leaning in so that he would not be overheard. “And yet you’ve gone and shared a bed with one.”

“I have done no such thing,” Alma insisted. “I am not the liar among us, Victor.”

“I have lied about nothing,” Victor said bitterly. “It is no fault of mine how fickle your wishes have become. What do you want from me? Why won’t you just—why won’t you just stop?”

“I am just as I have always been, sweetheart,” Alma said softly, her fingers tracing her sleeping daughter’s cheeks. “Perhaps you should leave.”

“No. I’ll look cruel.”

“I did not—never mind. Never mind all of it. Never mind my only fault is not being a monster.”

“Whatever do you mean? I wish you’d just make sense.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” she said, and no matter how he pressed, she would not elaborate further. It did not take very long before he stopped asking, as the more distressed Alma sounded, the more her daughter fussed, and when she finally fell silent, the child began to cry, and Victor sat back and glowered as she tried to calm the girl. 

When Alma began to sing, he got to his feet and left, ignoring the critical looks from the other new mothers and brushing off the nurse who tried to talk to him. He stalked to his car, considering as he climbed in what would happen if he just…drove off. 

Nothing was stopping him. So he drove, but when he stopped and looked around, he was in the driveway of his own house. 

“Fuck this,” he muttered to himself, and he sat there in his car for a very long time. At one point, he glanced at his watch, but then he ripped it off and tossed it aside, only leaving the car and going inside once he noticed the sun beginning to disappear into the horizon. 

“Fuck you, Al,” he hissed, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it before dropping his keys to the floor. “Just— fuck you. Fuck!”

He almost screamed, but the neighbors would’ve heard, so instead he just let out a sob of rage, storming into the kitchen and taking a plate from the cabinet just to throw it to the floor and watch it shatter. 

“I hate you!” Victor said hotly to no one at all. “I hate you, I hate you, I fucking hate you, I’ll make you pay, I’ll make you fucking pay, just watch me, I’ll—“

He sobbed again, and then he fell to the floor and cried like he hadn’t since he was a very small child, and he remained like that for long enough that he must’ve slept at some point, but he did not know when he woke, only that when he finally stood it was light again and somehow one of the chairs at the kitchen table had been pulled out and he could've almost imagined Alastor sitting there, watching him with amusement as he flicked through the newspaper. 

Quite pathetic, Alastor might’ve remarked. Now, really, my young friend, what did you expect? I doubt many wives would stay faithful when neglected for as long as yours has been. Did you really think any differently?

“Shut your mouth,” Victor groaned. “Please, just don’t.”

I’m only pointing out the facts! Alastor could’ve said with a laugh. You’re a rather poor example of a man, what with your being a woman and all, but I imagine a woman who likes women would prefer a woman who actually acts like one. Not…whatever mess you’ve made of yourself.

“I have done what I must,” Victor said. “What do you want from me? I helped you. I helped her. Why does she—why won’t she just—I have done exactly as she asked. I did everything right, why hasn’t she—why doesn’t—“

Now, now, Alastor didn’t chide. You’re a freak, my dear, there’s no point in sugarcoating it, but that’s perfectly all right. I don’t mind.

“Alma minds.”

Oh, Alma’s never appreciated you. She wants a wife, and you don’t want to be one. She only loves you when you’re lying. What sort of play is that?

“You don’t love me at all.”

I’m dead. 

“Fucking—exactly. You—you promised, Al, you promised you wouldn’t die. You’re no better than her.”

You never expected me to live. You just wanted to know I fought it, wasn’t that what you said? You wanted to be able to tell yourself that I tried to stay with you?

“I hate you.”

You don’t. You never have. You hate being alone, and you hate having to deal with losing the only person you ever felt truly understood you, after you’ve already given up your whole life for a woman who doesn’t know you and a new life spent constantly hiding. You hate yourself, my friend, and you hate that no one knows you better than a dead man you never knew at all.

Victor laughed softly, rubbing at his face and squeezing his eyes shut. “I really didn’t, did I? I don’t even know your middle name.”

No, the nonexistent Alastor agreed, seeming slightly remorseful for the first time. But you know how my casing looks when my voice has finally been freed.

“That’s a stupidly poetic way of saying I’ve seen your corpse.”

Poetry is only stupid if it’s done poorly. 

“Yes, and you were always a terrible poet, so don’t start.”

I was the adult son of the strange woman you spent a year with. I was thirteen years older than you, and you were more interested in me than your wife. I was odd and rude and brash, and you thought I was magnificent simply because I called you handsome and seemed to understand what you meant when you insisted you weren’t a crossdresser.

“That’s putting it simply.”

That’s the barest truth of it. 

“You’re very high-and-mighty for a dead serial killer,” Victor snapped, forgetting himself and opening his eyes, and because there was no one sitting in the chair, no response came. 

Victor stared at it. 

Then he got up and fetched the newspaper. 

When he flicked through it and found absolutely no mention of a long-dead radio host and a long-gone murderer, he took a kitchen knife to the walls of the spare room until the wallpaper was shredded and the wood underneath was damaged and broken. 

He considered getting some paint, but instead he just fetched all the blankets and clothes Alma had knitted and crocheted in the months of her pregnancy and tossed them into the fireplace. 

When he brought her home and she saw the burnt remains, she screamed and yelled until the baby began to shriek, and then Victor slapped her across the face and reminded her of what would happen to the girl if he had to deal with her himself.

After that, Alma fell quiet. 

Strangely enough, it brought Victor no satisfaction to watch her silently weep.

Chapter Text

“You had a fucking kid?” Valentino bursts out. He scrambles up, staring at Vox like he’s been personally betrayed. “You—“

“No,” Vox says. 

“No? Pendejo, you just—“

“I didn’t have a fucking dick, Val, how the fuck was I supposed to have gotten her pregnant? That was the entire reason I freaked out, were you even listening?”

“Oh,” Val says. Velvette rolls her eyes so far back her pupils disappear into the back of her head. Because she can do freaky shit like that. Vox will probably never get used to it. “No, you didn’t. So who was the baby daddy, then?”

“Hold on, the whole fucking point of your mistaken soulmates friends-to-lovers-to-enemies hurt/angst shitck was that she was a lesbian!” 

“I am aware, Velvette,” Vox says idly. “I didn’t actually ask.”

“You didn’t fucking ask,” she echoes. “Oh my fuck, you’re both so fucking useless, the one decent bit of gossip in your boring-ass life and you don’t ask?”

“I didn’t really want to know the details about my wife’s affair, if you can believe that,” Vox confirms. “The only solid bit of evidence I could've come up with was the blonde hair, and that was so easily explained away. And, well…a married man, a father…there’s nothing suspicious about that, is there?” 

“You’re literally no fun,” she says flatly. “Like, mathematically zero percent fun. If I had to measure how fun you are, I’d need the microscopic equivalent of the Hubble telescope, and I still wouldn’t find anything because you are no fun.”

“Really getting the impression you only listened to half of what I said, but thanks, I guess.”

“You’re fucking welcome, boomer. And excuse me for not finding your constant whining about the fucking Radio Demon noteworthy. It's not like it happens all the fucking time or anything."

“Still not true, and I'm still not a boomer.”

“Still don’t give a shit.”

“Can both of you shut up,” Valentino suggests. “So you put up with some random slut’s bastard kid for…how many years?”

“You are some random slut’s bastard kid.”

“I am the best-case scenario for a random slut’s bastard kid, Velvy, I ran my shit, but Voxy here probably wanted the shithead to turn into a doctor or a lawyer or some stupid shit like that.”

“I kind of hoped she’d get hit by a car,” Vox admits.

“That sounds more accurate,” Velvette says. “Whatever the fuck. We need to worry about the brat showing up and trying to claim inheritance or something?”

“She’s not blood, she even can’t prove I’m the right guy. And inheritance is a bullshit law that can be fixed in seconds if you’ve got a good gun.”

“And I’ve got guns,” Valentino adds eagerly. 

“Thanks,” Vox says. Some very small part of him finds it almost attractive when Valentino offers violence, which is frankly humiliating. “Still not a problem. Now that we’ve established that some random guy’s kid is not going to ruin my—stop giving me that fucking look, Velvette, I do your taxes—our empire build on decades of work, do either of you have any intelligent questions?”

“If mansplaining were a crime, you would’ve ended up on death row,” she says flatly.

“That reminds me,” he says, snapping his fingers. (He doesn’t actually; his claws aren’t capable of creating the right sound, but if there’s anything a good host knows, it’s how important appearances are. So all he actually does is make the motion and play a sound recording from one of the smaller speakers. No one’s figured it out yet.) “Vel?”

“Yeah, Vox?” she asks. 

“How did you die?”

On July 6th, 2001, the state of Maryland found Virginia Audrey Campbell guilty of first-degree arson, first-degree murder, possession of a knife on public school property, and several other charges that Virginia herself found to be totally unfair. Her protests were not legally recognized, and she was given three life sentences and sent to a high-security prison where she would remain for the next five months. 

On November 1st, 2001, Virginia Campbell’s case was reopened due to the confessions of inmate Monique Jennings, who had been found guilty of second-degree murder a year earlier in a case involving Campbell. Jennings, who had insisted that Campbell had been the one to murder the victim, seventeen-year-old Krista Dean, had originally refused to give any further details, but upon learning of Campbell’s incarceration, she expanded upon her story and admitted that she had been in a homosexual relationship with Dean and Campbell had, upon discovering them together, killed Dean and mocked Jennings, threatening to kill her as well if she told anyone else what had happened. Jennings stated that Campbell had originally wanted her help in covering up Dean’s murder, but changed tactics when she realized authorities had been alerted. Jennings also asked for reevaluations of the numerous unsolved missing persons cases that had been filed in their area, the cases involving the deaths of Joanna McCann and Blake Hudson, and the house fire supposedly started by Lori Anderson that killed the Kleins. 

On December 1st, 2001, Virginia Campbell was found guilty on all counts and received multiple additional life sentences. She then, in a fit of what most saw as insanity but was really just her inability to give a fuck for one second longer, admitted to not only setting fire to the Kleins’ house, framing Lori Anderson (although she was pretty clear about the fact that Lori had actually been involved, but no one really paid that bit any attention), killing Blake Hudson, and framing Monique Jennings, (which, yeah, that was actually framing) but also that she’d murdered most of the people declared missing with the help of Krista Dean. 

The only incident connected to Virginia Campbell in any way that she didn’t freely admit to causing or contributing to was the death of Joanna McCann, which she insisted until the very end was nothing more than a tragic accident. 

It mattered very little, in the end, seeing as even if she hadn’t been eventually charged with Joanna McCann’s death, her fate would’ve likely remained unaltered. All of it matters very, very little.  

Virginia Campbell’s case was immediately reopened. Her parents, who had been showing up to her trials so far, although they did not take much of an active role in helping her, were noticeably absent. According to an anonymous source who she still hasn’t managed to identify, which, what the fuck , the Campbells had been so disgusted with her actions that they’d refused to associate themselves with their daughter any further. 

Which…fair, she guessed. She was an arguably psychopathic serial killer; not many people would claim a relation to someone like that. But it was still weird, because she’d always known she was an arguably psychopathic serial killer, and she’d gotten used to receiving spare bits of love and attention in between committing all her heinous crimes. 

Anyway, the point is, Virginia Campbell was eventually found guilty yet again of way too many charges for even her to keep track of, and this time she was sentenced to capital punishment. 

Normally, that wouldn’t have been actually carried out for at least another decade, and Virginia Campbell should probably still be alive today, but she didn’t quite fancy spending years sitting around, bored out of her mind, in a dirty, ugly, and gloomy maximum security prison. Besides, she’d had a pretty full life for an eighteen-year-old. What more was there to do?

So on December 20th, 2001, at who-knows-what-time because she wasn’t found for at least a few hours and none of the prisoners around her had anything resembling a clock, Virginia Audrey Campbell killed herself in her jail cell, and that was the end of that. 

Vox doesn’t know what to say. 

For once, Valentino seems to agree. He’s silent. His fingers aren’t even twitching towards his pocket. 

Velvette isn’t looking at either of them. 

Somehow, that wasn’t how Vox was expecting this to go. She died trying to escape jail, maybe, or in an accident fleeing the country, or possibly the state of Maryland was so horrified by her many, many crimes that they decided she was a special case and had her executed immediately. 

Not…that. 

Sure, he’d been a little suspicious, especially after how she’d been speaking earlier, but…still. 

Vox thinks of every time Velvette has ever insulted suicidal people, every time she said killing yourself is for pussies, every time she told Val she’d throw herself on an angelic blade if he didn’t stop being such a dumbass. 

He wonders, for just a moment, if she was ever serious.

“Vel?” he asks. 

“What?” she snaps, but the irritation in her voice is halfhearted at best. “Got any questions for the class?”

Vox thinks about it. 

“No,” he says finally. “I’m glad you did it. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Even if execution would’ve been more interesting,” Val adds, but for once, he doesn’t sound like he’s teasing. More like he’s pretending everything is normal. “Wouldn’t have been worth settling for some shitty designer. Imagine the state Voxy would be in without you, sugar. He’s right. We’re lucky you’re here.”

Oh. Oh, Christ, God, Satan, Hell, every single fucking one of the Sins, did—did Val try to be comforting and…actually succeed?

“What the fuck,” Vox says out loud, unable to stop himself. “That was…that was nice , what the fuck?”

Velvette’s mouth has fallen open, and she’s just staring at Valentino with an expression of complete and utter bafflement. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Valentino says. “I’m nice.”

Velvette somehow manages to give him a disbelieving look while still maintaining her shock. Val flips her off with three hands. 

“No,” Vox says, feeling a bit faint, even though that shouldn’t technically be possible. Maybe he’s overheating? His fan kicks on, and it says something about how shaken Velvette is that she doesn’t even shoot him a dirty look. Apparently, the noise is irritating and migraine-inducing. Excuse Vox for trying to avoid setting himself on fire. (Whether or not that has ever actually happened, he’ll never admit.) “No, you’re insensitive and disgusting and—and you’re a terrible person, I know I don’t mind torturing souls and it’s kinda fun but it turns you on, like, I’m sorry, that’s—I don’t even have the words. I have never heard you say anything nice that wasn’t at least a little creepy, and I’ve known you for almost forty years!”

“Don’t kinkshame me,” Valentino says, because of course that’s what he takes away from this. “This is Hell, papi. Has babydoll ever said anything nice?”

“Yes,” Velvette says. “I—I’m nice to Vox sometimes, and once I dragged you back here from some club instead of letting you black out and wake up wherever because one of Carmine’s goons was eyeing you up and there was a chance he had angelic steel on him.”

Valentino takes a few moments to process that. “I…don’t remember that.”

“Of course you don’t, you were pissed,” Velvette snaps. “The point is, it happened. I’ve been nice. And Vox fixes your mistakes instead of killing you and starting over with someone who can read, so that’s nice. You’re never nice.”

“I’m nice all the—“

“Manipulation doesn’t count,” Vox interrupts. Valentino literally snarls at him. He chooses to ignore it. 

“And I’m the only reason you’re still alive, if that’s not fucking nice I don’t know what is—but—wow. Okay. Moving on. Your turn. Let me guess, you died saving a three-legged kitten from a burning building?”

“Fuck you, hijo de puta, no te burles de mí,” Val seethes. “Me dispararon, así que vete a la mierda.”

“He called you a son of a bitch,” Velvette translates, frowning at her phone. “And…he doesn’t like being mocked.”

“I was aware of that, thanks.”

“Are you putting me through fucking Voogle Translate?”

“Yes.”

“Muñeca, te decapitaré, te arrancaré los órganos por la médula espinal, esperaré a que te vuelva a crecer la boca y haré que te los comas.”

Velvette looks at her phone. Then she turns it off. 

“All you do is talk,” she snaps, which is wildly inaccurate but also pretty clearly her way of letting it go. “Talk, talk, talk.”

“I’ll get my hands dirty if you make me, baby,” Val says, but he seems to have calmed down. Just a little bit. “Anyway, no, cabrón. Arson is Velvy’s schtick.”

“Did not expect you to know that word,” Velvette mutters. 

“Cállate.”

“I didn’t expect you to remember how you died,” Vox admits. “Weren’t you like, fucked up the entire time your ex was gone?”

“Eh,” Val sniffs. “I got tired of it at some point. I wasn’t, like, a proper addict, that shit’s bad for buisness, so I wouldn’t let myself use the same shit for longer than a week at a time. Figured if I kept switching it out, I wouldn’t get addicted to any one thing.”

Vox is really fucking sure that’s not how drugs work.

“I’m really fucking sure that’s not how drugs work,” Velvette says. 

“It did work, so fuck off. But I ran out of options really fast that way, so I’d just stop taking shit. I mean, when I was younger, sure, I did whatever. But by the time Scott left, I was basically sober.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sober.”

“It’s fucking Hell, Velvy, shit doesn’t matter anymore. Barely affects me anyway.”

“The violent tantrums are just his personality,” Vox says under his breath. Val tries to bite him, fails, and then goes back to monologing like nothing happened. 

“I was sober,” he repeats, and Vox is suddenly reminded of the way the newly deceased will scream in the streets, crying for help and telling anyone who will listen what happened to them.

Vox didn’t do that. Velvette didn’t either. He found the footage of her arrival back when they’d first met, and she’d just gotten up, looked around, and gone on her way. 

Velvette had known exactly what was going to happen to her. She’d chosen this. She’d chosen how she was to be damned. 

Vox wonders if Val had screamed. Vox didn’t, but he wonders if he would’ve, had he not known exactly what was going to happen to him.

“And when I’m sober, I get shit done, but, well. Not exactly fun. So.”

When Oscar was thirty-one, he got bored.

“Where’re you goin’ in such a hurry, Ozzie?” the girl in his bed asked as he pulled his pants back on, then reached for a shirt. “Though we were having fun…”

“I’ve got business,” Oscar told her. He didn’t bother to soften his tone. The girl wasn’t anyone special, and not particularly nice to look at. If he wanted her to come back, for whatever reason, he’d just pay her off. “Stay if you want, but be out of here by six. And next time you see him, tell Hans I’m going out of town.”

He wasn’t completely sure who Hans was, but he’d heard the name at the meeting he’d gone to the previous night, and that was probably where he’d picked up the girl. It didn’t really matter. She could figure out what he meant.

“Aw,” the girl started to complain, but Oscar ignored her, tugging on his shoes and jacket before grabbing a pack of cigarettes off the nightstand and walking out. 

He walked the few blocks to the apartment he’d bought for Kitty, as a present for being his top earner for a full year. It was his in every sense, so he didn’t need to knock, but he did anyway because she’d proved herself worthy of a little politeness. 

“Kit!” he called. “It’s Oz!”

“Heya, hunk,” she practically purred as she opened the door. She was tall for a woman, although not as tall as Oscar, and she was perpetually wearing kitten heels. She had curly black hair that fell to her shoulders, bronze skin, and an attractive figure. She was a master of the art that was looking burnt-out yet still sexy, which probably wouldn’t last forever, but for now it worked well.

Her name wasn’t Kitty, but it also wasn’t Roberta or Angeline or whatever she’d been going by before Oscar came across her and remade her, so it really didn’t matter. She came when he called and she did as he told, and that was good enough. 

He stepped inside, glancing around at the other girl asleep on the ugly couch pushed against a wall, and decided he didn’t care. Kitty pressed up against him, pressing kisses along his jaw, and when he turned his head to meet her lips he tasted the shitty tequila she’d been drinking. He let that go on for a minute or two before pulling back and holding out a hand.

Kitty reached into the neck of her dress and pulled out a stack of bills, pressing them into his hand. Oscar flicked through them, finding it satisfactory, and gave her a pleased smile. “Good girl. You better have twice this next time.”

Kitty frowned, looking concerned, and she took a step closer. Oscar could almost watch her try to puzzle out how she was going to talk her way out of the impossible. “Oz?”

“I’m going away for a few days,” he explained, watching as relief washed over her. “Not sure how long yet, but I’ve got business in Vegas.”

“Work or fun?” Kitty teased, smiling again, and Oscar laughed. 

“Fun,” he told her. “I’ll be back soon, pet.”

“Be more fun if you took me with you,” she suggested slyly. 

“Be more work,” he countered. “Remember that man I told you about? The one who stormed off?”

“‘Course, Ozzie,” Kitty agreed. “He don’t sound like much fun, though.”

Oscar shrugged. “I make my own fun. But he’ll get pissy if you’re hanging around with me, so. We can go another time, maybe. If you don’t disappoint me.”

Kitty shook her head quickly, giving him a horrified look. A bit dramatic, maybe, but Oscar didn’t actually care if she faked certain things around him. Meaning things didn’t make money. Being willing to do them anyway did. 

“Don’t you want to say goodbye, kitten?” he prompted, and Kitty smiled eagerly, sinking to her knees without a moment’s hesitation and beginning to—

“No.”

“I was talking,” Valentino protests. He makes one of those angry squeaking noises he always swears come from the vents. “You can’t just—“

“Yes, I can,” Velvette snaps. “I am not listening to you describe a blowjob you got from one of your favorite whores, which, did you name the fucking robot after her?”

“No, that was accidental,” Val admits. “And I let you tell your story! I didn’t interrupt once!”

“Congratulations, I’m sure your parents are very proud,” Velvette says flatly. “But too bad. Not listening to that. You can skip ahead.”

“I don’t have parents, you fucking bitch, and you know that,” Valentino mutters, but Vox starts rubbing circles into one of his wings and he relaxes. “Fine. Rude-ass bitch. Fine. I went to Vegas. And I found Scott.”

“I thought you gave up on him?” Vox asks, secretly a little thankful Valentino was interrupted. He’s not delusional enough to think there’s even the smallest chance of Val ever settling for monogamy, and truthfully, he doesn’t want the level of commitment that would entail anyway, but, well. That doesn’t mean he has to like any of the whores. Or that he doesn’t enjoy brutally murdering each plaything as soon as it’s tossed aside. Valentino probably doesn’t know about that particular hobby; he’s not that observant, but it’s not like he would mind. He’d probably be into it.

And if he isn’t, whatever. It’s not like he can just leave. Surely Val would appreciate that sentiment, if nothing else.

“I told you,” Valentino says. “I got bored. And Scott was mine. I don’t let my things go that easily.”

Vox grins.

Oscar got into the club easily enough. He didn’t have an ID, and he knew it was too dark for the bouncer to see his face, but a few bills pressed into the man’s hand solved that problem easily enough. This was an exclusive club, Oscar knew. It didn’t matter much to him. He knew what he was there for, and he also knew that if he paused to talk to any of the working women, he’d ruin it all. 

Contrary to popular belief, Oscar knew when to restrain himself. He just preferred not to, so it was saved exclusively for when he was on the hunt. 

“Watch where you’re going,” a man snapped at him, and Oscar just grinned back, continuing with his weaving path around the room. 

“Excuse me,” he said, grabbing a random man’s arm. “Have you seen a deaf fellow around here? Brown hair, about yea tall, prone to thrashing around like he’s on some good shit?”

The man he’d picked gave him a disgruntled look, eyeing him up and down. He wrinkled his nose, obviously displeased with whatever he’d gleaned from Oscar’s appearance, and folded his arms. 

“What’s your name, boy?” he grunted. Oscar resisted the urge to hit him. 

“I’m thirty-one, for your information,” he said irritably. “Louis Preston.”

The man grunted again. “You got an ID to prove that?”

“For fuck’s sake, I have to make a delivery to him,” Oscar snapped. “Of course I fucking don’t.”

“Ah,” the man said, instantly looking much less suspicious. “Tell you what, I’ll pay you double to lose whatever you’ve got for him.”

Oscar considered taking it, just for the extra cash, but he still needed to find Scott and fucking up his plan wasn’t worth a few extra bucks. “And get myself fired when he goes and bitches to my boss? Nah, man. Just tell me where he is.”

The man heaved a sigh. He was old, Oscar noticed suddenly, probably in his sixties or seventies. Odd. No wonder he was talking to Oscar like a child. 

“He’s in the back, through that door,” the man said. “He does the accounting for me, so don’t go bothering him. If I find you were poking around, I’ll make sure you never work again, got that?”

“I’m not the deaf one,” Oscar muttered. “I ain’t fucking thick.” He’d picked up on the fact that this was very likely the owner, thanks to Oscar’s special mixture of dumb luck and shit luck, but he didn’t have to acknowledge that, so without another word he took off, shoving two bodies out of his way as he marched off to the indicated door. 

The music was instantly muffled. Unlike the dark light of the club, lit only near certain games, this looked more like a standard office building. There were a few more doors attached to that one, but only one was open, and that was the one Oscar stepped into. 

“Hello, hunk,” Oscar called, stepping in front of Scott’s desk and leaning down. Miss me?

If Scott had glared, Oscar would’ve probably left.

If Scott had hit him, Oscar would’ve just cut his losses and gotten drunk.

If Scott had looked disgusted, horrified, angry, anything like that, Oscar wouldn’t have done what he did, and maybe then it would’ve gone differently.

But instead, Scott’s eyes widened and he dropped his pencil, and for one long, long moment, he stared at Oscar with such a stupidly heartsick expression that Oscar almost hit him. 

Oz, Scott signed reflexively, with the name sign he’d made up years ago, and Oscar gave him a toothy smile. 

“Oh, you did, didn’t you?” Oscar cooed, and then Scott’s happiness evaporated.

Leave, Scott told him. Now. I don’t want what you’re selling.

Oscar laughed. “Baby,” he teased, and then he reached forward, knocking Scott’s pen out of his hand to rub his jaw, which Scott clenched, but he didn’t shove Oscar off. His eyes didn’t leave Oscar. 

I missed you too, Oscar told him. It wasn’t very nice of you to leave me, Scott. But that’s okay. I’m back. You can come back too.

Scott looked at him.

No, he signed. But his hands shook. He wouldn’t tear his eyes away from Oscar, his hands were shaking, and Oscar could feel how quickly his heart was pounding. 

“I can tell you want me, cariño. No te molestes en mentirme,” he whispered, slipping his hand down to Scott’s neck. He didn’t bother signing. Scott wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew what was going on. 

No, Scott signed, then did it again. And again. No. No. No. No. 

“Scott,” Oscar pouted. With his free hand, he fingerspelled, B-E G-O-O-D. 

No, Scott repeated, but he didn’t move. He didn’t try to shove Oscar off. He probably couldn’t have anyway, but he didn’t try, and that was all Oscar needed. 

When Oscar kissed him, Scott still didn’t move, so he broke the kiss to step around the desk and plop himself down on Scott’s lap. Oscar moved to kiss him again, but this time Scott turned away. 

“No,” he said loudly, grabbing Oscar’s wrists and pulling his hands away from his face. “Don’t.”

“Baby,” Oscar whined, grinning. “You’ll hurt my feelings like that.” 

He twisted his hands out of Scott’s grasp and pinned his arms down before kissing him again, deeper this time, muffling Scott’s noise of protest. Oscar just chuckled, moving on to suck marks into Scott’s neck as he wrapped his legs around the back of the chair to prevent Scott from standing up. 

“Behave,” he said into Scott’s collarbone, and Scott tried to lunge upwards, but Oscar didn’t move. “Ah-ah-ah!”

“Get off me,” Scott practically snarled, and then he made a sort of shrieking noise as Oscar bit the side of his neck. He’d always been a wimp about that sort of thing, which Oscar thought was a shame, because it was fun. Maybe Kitty had been right. Oscar almost missed her. 

Or. Well. He missed her tits. Scott was definitely lacking in that department, but Oscar yanked the front of his button-up shirt open to reach his nipples anyway. 

“Don’t,” Scott said furiously, but Oscar wasn’t listening to him anymore; he was too busy figuring out how to get a hand under Scott’s waistband while still holding his arms down. It’d be much easier if Scott would just fucking cooperate, Oscar knew how much Scott must’ve missed him and even if he hadn’t it wouldn’t have mattered. Scott owed a fucking debt, and just because Oscar had permitted him a little vacation didn’t mean that debt was forgiven. 

After Oscar had his way, he planned to take Scott home with him, leaving this stupid club behind and finding a shitty hotel where Scott could start making his insolence up to him. He wasn’t exactly sure what would happen after that, but he’d take Scott back to Houston, and they’d figure shit out. Maybe Oscar would punish Scott for a bit, but eventually things would be normal again. 

Oscar had missed him, after all. In his own way. 

But of course, before Oscar could figure the not-enough-hands problem out, something cold and metallic was pressed against the side of his head. 

Oscar froze instinctively. It’d been years since he’d had a gun held to his skull, but years didn’t make him a fucking idiot, unlike some people. 

“You get off him, boy,” the old man from earlier said in a low voice, because of course that was just Oscar’s fucking luck. “Now.”

“He paid me,” Oscar said immediately, as he held his hands up and carefully removed himself from Scott’s lap. The second he was up, Scott also scrambled to his feet, and for a second, Oscar thought the ungrateful idiot was going to come to his senses and defend him, but instead, Scott just made a pathetic sort of sound and started signing too fast for Oscar to catch most of it. It’d been years since he’d needed to bother with the hand-waving, but evidently the old man had been practicing, because he grabbed Oscar’s shoulder roughly and yanked him around to face him. 

“You think I’m a fucking idiot, boy?” the man spat out, and Oscar shrugged. 

He was probably fucked, but that didn’t bother him too much. Oscar had been fucked over many, many times in his life. Eventually, it had stopped bothering him too much. 

“He knows me,” Oscar settled on, because the sodomy thing didn’t seem to be what the man was so pissed about. “Old friends, he’s fine, he likes it. He’s just being pissy because he doesn’t like how I manage my employees, but surely someone in your position understands that you’ve got to be strict? I mean, you let one brat off, and suddenly the rest of them start thinking they can do whatever they want! And I was defending him, was the thing, she was bitching about him to his face and of course the poor man had no idea, so I had to make them understand, you know? You seem like a sensible man, I’m sure you understand how a business works.”

“I do,” the man agreed. “You’re right, I gotta be strict.”

Oscar looked at him. 

He had a feeling that he’d messed up at some point, but for the life of him, he couldn’t pinpoint exactly when that had happened. 

Probably, he admitted to himself as he opened his mouth to launch into another pitch, when he’d convinced himself Scott was the only way to get a nice place instead of just hiring a white hooker. 

It didn’t really matter, though, because before Oscar could begin to speak, the man shot him through the side of the head. Oscar Vicario had been many, many things, but immortal wasn’t one of them, and so that was the end of that.  

“Actually, though, why didn’t you just find a homeless stripper?” Velvette asks. 

“It was easier,” Valentino snaps. 

“He’s a romantic,” Vox translates. 

“He’s a fucking rapist, are you serious?”

“He’s a deluded romantic,” Vox amends. “You know the type, from one of those terrible fantasy books where the male love interest is toxic and controlling, but the girl falls for him anyway and finds it all sweet? He hasn’t figured out that no one actually wants that.”

“They do,” Valentino snaps. “It’s fucking worked out before, asshole.”

“If they want that, they want monogamy,” Vox concedes, and Valentino sniffs angrily, but he doesn’t argue further. 

“I’ve found like seventeen of those books in your bedroom, big man,” Velvette says flatly. “The stalker doesn’t get to make judgment calls on toxic.”

If anything, being a stalker means Vox is an expert on toxic. He’s grown enough over the years to be able to admit to himself that yes, the stalking is what most would consider a problem, and yes, it doesn’t make for a healthy relationship. He isn’t an idiot. He just doesn’t give a shit. 

“You vetoed all my other hobbies,” he says irritably, and Velvette just rolls her eyes. 

“Sharks are not a hobby,” she says. “An activity relating to sharks could be a hobby, but what the fuck does sharks even mean?”

It means he likes sharks, basically. 

“It means you’re not even a shareholder in VoxTech, so you don’t get to pick and choose my hobbies,” he retorts. 

“VoxTech has no shareholders. It’s literally just you. I don’t even think you know how a company works, half of our paperwork is pure bullshit you probably made with an AI.”

“That’s not an acceptable reason to submit your tax forms three months late.”

“Val submitted his yesterday.”

“Val gets extensions on account of his disability.”

“Who the fuck are you calling disabled?” Valentino demands. 

“If it takes you three times longer than it should just to read the documents, then you’d better be disabled,” Vox mutters. 

“I’m not fucking disabled, I’ve got better shit to do,” he seethes. “You came up with half of our applications because you wanted to make Carmine look stupid, and you only enforce rules if you don’t like the person who’s breaking them! We don’t even pay taxes, you make us fill the forms out so you have something legitimate-looking to wave in people’s faces at the Overlord meetings!”

“Everyone knows that,” Vox dismisses. “I’m a corrupt businessman, that’s how it works.”

“Dollface doesn’t, because you pulled out the whole act when you were recruiting her,” Valentino says idly, like he’s not fucking up nearly two decades of Vox’s efforts to keep Velvette in the dark because he’s mildly annoyed. 

“Excuse me?” Velvette asks sharply. “Vox?”

“Don’t act like you’re entirely truthful, my dear, I noticed,” Vox says smoothly. He’s noticed nothing, actually, but he knows Velvette well enough to guess that there probably is something she’s hiding from him. “Val only has access because he can’t read any of it.”

Velvette still looks a little suspicious, but she relaxes. Vox pretends not to notice the look Valentino’s giving him. He’ll deal with that later. 

It’s not like Velvette didn’t already know Vox is essentially stealing her money, anyway. She’s smart enough to have noticed that gap in the contract, but when they first started negotiations, Velvette had been new and alone. She’d had to take what Vox had offered her. 

He’ll fix that later, maybe. Once she finds a way to make him. 

“So you got shot by a random old man who took a liking to your ex-boytoy,” Velvette summarizes. “Riveting. You’ve officially never learned anything.”

“Says the girl who murdered everyone in the room whenever a talking stage went sideways.”

“Says the guy who didn’t murder his talking stage and then ended up dead because of it.” 

“Bitch, we were official.”

“Bullshit.”

“We were! He even called me his boyfriend once!”

“Sure he did. Anyway, Vox?”

“Don’t you fucking speak to me like that, you entitled bitch,” Valentino seethes, getting off the bed. “I’m the only fucking reason you’re here, you think Vox wanted you? Vox thought you were a fucking threat, and I talked him into keeping you, so you should be fucking thankful.”

“Val,” Vox snaps, his voice glitching as his hypnotic eye flashes in Valentino’s face. He freezes like he always does, and when Vox gives him a rough tug, he sits back down, letting Vox press his head to the side of Vox’s screen. 

“Trust us,” Vox whispers, and Valentino calms. 

“Vox?” Velvette asks, after a moment has passed. “Is that true?”

“Hm? Oh, yes,” he says. “I thought it was too risky, but he said fresh blood was good for a brand. It always worked for him, so I thought I’d let it play out.”

She nods. Vox wonders what she’s thinking. 

“How’d you die?” she asks finally. It takes Vox a moment to notice she’s spoken, Valentino is biting the back of his neck and Vox is thinking about whether or not this means he’s fun. 

“Oh, well,” he starts to say, and then he stops. “That’s…complicated, my dear.”

Later, Victor does not remember exactly what had happened. 

But it might’ve gone something like this: 

Dorothy, shrieking at the top of her lungs as Victor pinned her mother to the wall, Alma spitting in his face as she sank a knife into his ribs. 

Then again, the discolored patches on his chest are too large for a single wound, and what sort of knife kills a man so quickly?

Victor falling to the floor as Alma kicked his feet out from under him, their new television falling from its stand and crushing his head. A feeling of disconnect overwhelming him as something terrible happened to the rest of his body. 

Their television wasn’t all that heavy, though. It had been a simple model, light enough to be carried into the house with relative ease, and if it had been heavy enough to crush someone’s head, then surely it had been too heavy for Alma to move on her own? 

“I have never loved you,” Alma spat out as she kicked his prone form, over and over again. Behind her, Dorothy stared with large blue eyes full of wonder as the man who threatened her died a pitiful death. 

That…that didn’t happen. That didn’t make sense, and it didn’t happen, and it feels more like a dream than anything more. Like a bad dream he’d had back in his early days of death, or maybe even when he was still alive. 

“My baby,” Alma howled, over and over again, face stained with tears and rage as she ripped Victor to shreds with her bare hands. “My baby,” she cried, because the brat was finally dead and Victor had killed her. 

He hadn’t. He knows that, at least. He hadn’t killed Dorothy, even if he’d threatened to over and over again. Even if that threat had been what eventually made Alma snap.  

“Touch her and die,” Alma repeated, and that is exactly what had happened. Victor had touched her; he had grabbed her by her hair and thrown her against the wall after she’d dared to tug on his sleeve, and then he died. Alma killed him. 

Probably something along those lines. He remembers wanting to hurt her vividly; he remembers wanting to make the living, breathing, crying symbol of Alma’s betrayal disappear, and it’d be odd if he’d never even tried. 

Victor slapped her, and then he punched her, over and over again, and by the time Alma reached them, Dorothy had stopped crying, falling into an unconscious, bloody slump on the ground. “What have you done,” Alma seethed, and then she killed him. 

It was by Alma’s hands, definitely. His death was Alma’s doing. 

“I have never loved you,” she spat in his face, and he just closed his eyes. “I want you fucking dead, Victor Nixon, dead!”

Whether or not it was objectively his fault, though…he couldn’t be positive. 

He broke her fingers and she said his name like a curse and Dorothy stared from the doorway, her eyes full of terror. For once, Alma didn’t turn to her, and Victor wondered why. When he screamed at her and told her to respect his name, she just let out a wet laugh and said, “I thought your name was Thea?” And she killed him anyway. 

The barest facts of the matter were this:

Alma screamed, Dorothy cried, and Victor died. 

He had died at Alma’s hands. 

The glint of a knife, that same old kitchen knife. The same one he’d taken to Alastor’s leftovers and the nursery’s walls and Alma’s skin. His face reflected on the television screen. 

It had been in their living room, probably. Their new television might’ve been involved, or he might’ve just caught a glimpse of it as he died. 

The wires tangled around his throat, and he choked, coughing up blood, but Alma just pulled them tighter. There was something wild in her face, and he recognized it vaguely as the look of a woman whose spirit had been beaten out of her and was left with nothing but pain and fury. 

It had been…somewhat warranted. And not completely surprising. 

“I’ll kill her,” he’d said, over and over again, “I’ll kill your brat if she touches me, if she touches this, if she breaks anything, if she doesn’t shut up, if you don’t do exactly what I say, I’ll kill her,” and then Alma killed him. 

It hadn’t been surprising in the slightest, actually. 

“I’ll kill you if you touch a hair on her head,” Alma had sworn, and perhaps he should’ve paid more attention to her because Alma was right, she’d never lied, and she still wasn’t lying. He’d touched Dorothy, and Alma had killed him. 

Dorothy had been somewhere nearby. She had been upset, because of the violence or because she was hurt or because of something else entirely, Vox couldn’t recall. 

“Mommy, Mommy, Mama,” Dorothy cried, over and over again, and Victor gritted his bloody teeth as Alma glanced away from his dying body to give her daughter a reassuring smile and call out comforting words. 

He had died slowly. He’d known he was dying, and he’d been bitter, but he hadn’t been overly upset. 

As the world faded out, he watched through distant eyes as Alma straightened up, dropping the knife and wiping her bloody hands on her dress before she hurried out of his view. From somewhere far, far away, he could almost hear her whisper, “Don’t worry, he can’t hurt us anymore,” to Dorothy. 

Dorothy had not come to any harm, and Alma had gotten away with it. His body had disappeared, and he’d been declared missing for the second time in his life, and just like the first time, he was never found at all. Just like the first time, he was mourned distantly for a bit, and then he faded out of living memory once more. Just like the first time, the few remnants of his family moved on. 

Victor Nixon died in Louisiana at some point in late 1951, twenty-two years after Dorothea Price had disappeared in Texas, and no record of either person was ever found. For a while, Victor Nixon was theorized to have been Louisiana's Huntsman (a name that came back a few decades later when an unsuspecting journalist found a few of Alastor’s surviving scripts) and his name eventually found its way into a few true crime podcasts that were lacking in new content, but nothing ever came of any of it. 

To put it simply, Victor Nixon had died. And, as with most deaths, that was the end of that. 

“You don’t remember?” 

“No,” Vox admits. 

“She must’ve done something to your head, then,” Velvette guesses. Valentino is still staring at him, but when he notices Vox looking back, he returns to marking up Vox’s neck. “Brain trauma can mess up your memory as long as it wasn’t what killed you.”

“I remember everything,” Valentino insists. 

“Because your brain injury killed you, fuck, do you not listen to a word I say?”

“I would if they weren’t all so boring, muñeca,” Val sighs. “You really didn’t do much at all, did you, Voxy?”

“I was a radio host for years,” Vox says. “At the end of my life, I was looking into a job in television and studying the technology again. I spent a few years getting rid of Alastor’s tracks, and I couldn’t convince myself to get rid of all his tools, so I would go over to his empty house and wait for people to wander into the swampy area behind it. The bayou, he called it, but when Ida died, all his stuff went to her next of kin, some vague cousin that ended up tearing the place down. I killed the cousin, but the house was already gone, so by then I stopped. I had a full life, I guess. I had a career, I had hobbies, I had a family of sorts. I just didn’t care about any of it.”

“What the fuck could’ve possibly been so life-changing about Alastor?” Velvette asks bluntly. “Was it just the trans thing?”

Vox thinks about it. 

(Talking on the porch after one of Ida’s suppers, Alastor trying to teach Victor pieces of the language he speaks with his mother. The glint of moonlight on his glasses as he laughs at Victor’s terrible pronunciation, and Ida’s fond smile as she sticks her head out to check on them.)

He considers it. 

(Alastor walking Victor to morning mass after he mentioned wanting to go, light-hearted religious debates as they watch the sun rise. Alastor pokes and prods at Victor’s past and learns next to nothing, and Victor asks his own questions so that he can admire how neatly Alastor skirts around answering them.)

After all, it wasn’t like they knew each other all that well. Even now, Vox doesn’t know Alastor’s middle name. 

(A class photograph from Victor’s last year of high school, kept only for the sake of the seventeen-year-old Alma in the first row, stolen from Victor’s pocket without drawing his attention. When he finally notices its absence and turns to ask, Alastor is placing it in his hand before he can even open his mouth.)

It’s not even like Alastor was ever very nice, because he wasn’t. He was rude, cold, and self-absorbed. 

(Alastor’s mocking smirk dancing in and out of Victor’s vision as his new boss berates him for a meaningless mistake, a barely suppressed glower that never makes itself seen. Later; Victor’s curt responses, Alastor’s attempts to breeze over the incident, and a hasty parting. The next day, things return to normal, and the previous coldness is forever forgotten.)

Just like he is now. 

(The metallic smell of blood and Alastor’s dangerous smile, Victor’s apprehension that lasts for the entirety of their time together, conflicting feelings of loss and relief as Alastor finally drives away. Comforting words that sound more like a tease, Alastor exhaling on the back of Victor’s neck before his smile grows fake once more. Bitten-down pleas and longing stares that bring nothing more than amusement. Eventually, he learns to start hiding them.)

“Probably,” Victor says. “Yeah, it was probably just the gender thing. I wasn’t having a great time with that when I was younger.”

(Bruised ribs and pained breaths, interest badly disguised as concern. Blood and vomit and once even a poor attempt at witchcraft that resulted in a mild poisoning. Alma’s oblivious letters and Ida’s stiff fretting, Alastor’s purposeful ignorance that feels closer to permission than anything else.)

“You didn’t do much at all,” Valentino echoes. “Did you?”

“I guess not,” Victor says. “But it’s not like either of you did.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows it as soon as he goes to speak, but he doesn’t feel like soothing it over, so he just watches as Valentino gets up and Velvette’s scowl fixes itself back into place, as Val lights another cigarette and Vel retrieves her phone. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she spits out, staring incredulously at the screen. “I’ve gotta go, the interns fucking destroyed my seasonal display and burnt a fucking model.”

“Ooo,” Valentino says blandly, fishing for his own phone. “Oh, fucking finally, Angel’s back, I’m going to go beat the shit out of him. See you tonight, Voxy?”

“Reservations are at nine,” Vox reminds him, and Valentino leans down to kiss him goodbye before he hurries out of the room. Velvette is still standing there, typing furiously. 

“Why do you bother with dinner,” she says distractedly. 

“He gets bitchy if he thinks he’s being treated like a whore,” Vox explains, getting up. “Something about deserving better than his employees, I don’t fucking know, but the sex is shit if he’s sulking.”

“You’re pathetic. They fucked up half of the styling equipment too, heads are rolling.”

“Send me a list and I’ll work out replacements.”

“Already working on it. Gotta go kill a bitch. Have fun with your sugar baby.”

She blows him a kiss as she leaves, and Vox watches her, fascinated as always by how she manages not to run into anything while not looking up once. 

The doors to the room automatically shut behind her, and Vox is left alone. 

He stands there for a moment. 

And then he goes back to his office to order a line of sex toys. 

Later on, Vox looks them up. Because he wants to. Because he needs to. Because all three Vees are pathological liars and Vox has never been able to settle for anything less than the truth, so yes. He fucking checks. 

Virginia Audrey Campbell was born on January 19th, 1983. She died eighteen years later, on December 20th, 2001, of unknown causes. She was also on death row for a long list of charges that basically summed up to being a serial killer, and before she died, it’d been estimated that she’d be on death row for around five years. Her Wikipedia article has a long list of her victims, both confirmed and potential. Funnily enough, one of the names included as a potential, Karolina Winston, had been a student at Saint Peter’s Christian Academy. She’d tripped and smashed her head on metal bleachers when she was fifteen, and the resulting neurological problems had killed her a year later, after numerous costly medical procedures failed to save her. There was no proof that Virginia Campbell had anything to do with it, but she had been suspiciously close by when the accident occurred. 

Joanna McCann, however, is not on either of Virginia’s lists. Her name is not mentioned anywhere on the page or in the transcripts of the trial. 

Krista Dean had died at seventeen years old. Virginia Campbell is listed as the cause of her death. 

Monique Jennings had been released from prison after the trial of Virginia Campbell, which had resulted in her being pardoned, but she was arrested again three months later for selling cocaine. She eventually got out, then ended up back in due to gang involvement, and still resides there. 

Josiah Campbell was also arrested, but for domestic abuse. His wife had called the police on him during a fight they’d had over their daughter’s recent sentencing, and she’d been able to show them enough proof to get her husband carted off. He was released a couple of years later and has never returned to the state.

Monica Campbell became Monica Carlson and currently lives in Indiana with her new husband, a British guy who’d moved to America to escape his ex-wife, taking with him two of their three kids, who now have an eighteen-year-old half-sister. Vox finds a photograph of her on her Instagram where she’s sitting on another girl’s lap, flipping off the camera, and when he sees how she sneers at the camera he can’t help but think she sort of looks like Velvette does when someone’s pissing her off. 

Her name is Charlotte, and Vox wonders if she’s ever heard anything about her big sister. 

He’ll tell Velvette about her if she ever asks, but he doubts she will. 

Marcela Vicario Perez was married three times over the course of her life, racking up a total of ten children, not including her stepchildren or anyone named Oscar Vicario. Her third and final marriage was to a man named Louis Perenno, and the two of them are still married to this day, living in an assisted living community with regular visits from each of their own kids, the three they share, and their many, many grandchildren. 

Legally speaking, there was never anyone who was born in 1944, lived in Arizona and then Texas, and was named Oscar Vicario. There were, however, school files of a boy by that name, alongside Raymond Preston, Walter Howard, and Scott Miller. As far as Vox can tell, no one ever looked into the fact that one registered student did not legally exist, and when Oscar Vicario left that school in 1962, he didn’t have to drop off the map. He’d never been on it to begin with. 

Roy Preston did not commit suicide in 1961. He didn’t die for another three years, and then it was in prison, beaten to death by another inmate. Whether it was because of the pedophilia charge or the sodomy, Vox couldn’t be sure. 

(Or maybe, Vox thinks to himself, it was because someone on the outside slipped the other prisoner a few bucks to make sure Roy Preston never saw the light of day again.)

Raymond Preston and Walter Howard both lived decently sized and uneventful lives. Both of them are now dead. 

None of Valentino’s girls ever gave him their real names, and so Vox doesn’t even bother with them. There were hundreds of strippers going by names like Kitty or Ginger in the nineteen-sixties, and even if there weren’t, well. It’s not like Vox has ever been fond of any of Val’s employees. 

Scott Miller lived in Houston until 1973. He then moved to Las Vegas for about three years, working at a casino owned by Henry Campbell until the man died in 1976, and Scott moved on. He died in 2022 at the age of seventy-eight, alongside a man he’d been with for forty years and married to for seven. Vox does not check if he’s in Heaven or Hell, because if he does, he will have to tell Valentino, and he tells himself that he thinks Scott Miller has probably had enough of Valentino for a lifetime and an afterlife. 

Really, Vox just doesn’t want to share. 

Alma Nixon died in 1989, in Pennsylvania, with her daughter Dorothy, son-in-law Scott, and her three grandchildren all by her side. She did not have another spouse, man or woman, but Vox finds several old photos of her with a tall blonde woman, and if he were a different sort of man, that would tell him all he needed to know, but he isn’t, and it doesn’t. Her name was legally Richard Gibbons, but she went by Clara Ross. She was a transgender woman born in 1914, and when Vox compares her photo to Dorothy’s, he ends up taking out Pentagram City’s power for the second time in the last few months. 

Alma Nixon is currently living in Hell, going by a different name and working for Carmilla Carmine. Vox wonders if she has some idea of who he is. Probably not, so instead he wonders if she’s looked.

Clara Ross is not in Hell, and Vox isn’t sure if she was exterminated or never fell in the first place, but she had lived in Louisiana from 1936 to 1951, and then in Pennsylvania until her death, four years before Alma’s. They might’ve raised Dorothy together. They might not have. Legally, they could’ve gotten married, but they did not. They could’ve had more children, untouched by Vox’s hands, but they did not. 

Dorothy McCann, née Nixon, is still alive. She lives in Texas with her husband, in Alma’s old house. Her older two, Melissa and Jason, both have thriving careers and are doing well for themselves. Her youngest, Joanna, died in 1995 after going into anaphylactic shock at a school dance. 

If Vox were a different kind of man, he would cry upon learning this. If Vox were a different kind of man, he would still retain the ability to cry. If Vox were a different kind of man, the kind that wasn’t a man at all, if Vox were a woman, then maybe Dorothy would’ve been his daughter. Maybe Melissa, Jason, and Joanna would be his grandchildren. Maybe he’d look for Joanna in Hell. Maybe he’d pay a few imps off to check on Melissa and Jason, maybe drop off some money for them. Maybe he’d get another to send Dorothy the old family photographs Alma insisted he pay for, and maybe there still would be family photographs to give, not just ashes. 

He imagines, just for a moment, what life would’ve been like if he was a woman, a proper woman, a woman who could’ve been a woman without coughing up bloody pieces of his lungs and heart and all his other organs until he was completely emptied, nothing but a withered, hollow husk of a person.

He imagines it, and for just a moment it is interesting to consider, because he’s never realized just how many events stemmed from his gender and his feelings about it, and then he thinks about Alastor, his half-moon glasses and clever eyes, his long fingers and always-present smile, the temptation he would’ve presented even if Vox had been wearing a dress, and then Vox thinks that maybe his gender didn’t matter so much after all.

Maybe, he thinks, the root of all his problems is himself.

But maybe, he thinks much later, dancing with Valentino pressed to his body and Velvette hovering close by, maybe he doesn’t actually care.

That doesn’t mean he’s going to stop trying to take over Hell, it doesn’t mean he’s not going to rage and rant and break things once he finds out whether Alastor is dead or alive or missing for another seven years, it doesn’t mean he won’t be tracking down Alma and getting her soul from Carmine, and it doesn’t mean he’s going to tell anyone what happened between him and Alastor after Vox had died.

But, well. It means something. And maybe it doesn’t need to mean anything more than that.