The fighting had surely reached its zenith now. It covered the city and ruined most things around; it broke heaven and left the realms in disarray. Vox, at its core seemed near his end too— at least what people hoped more most

"Oh-ho-ho, three for the price of one."

The Might of Lilith creaks as it moves, the burly canon very clearly on its last legs and likely mirroring the (fallen) angel inside. Vox stands atop of it, clothes torn, shaking, wires sprouting from his back every which way that don't even lead anywhere anymore.

"You've just been fucking cancelled."

"Vox, stop! Firing anymore will overload the weapon." But it's an empty threat in his mind. Even from a weapons dealer. Even from the one who made the weapon.

"Then I better make these shots count!"

"You idiot, if it overloads, it will blow, taking you, us, and half the Pentagram with it!" It's like he's hearing another threat; a much more mundane one than killing all the people who said he'd uplift, including himself and the people he'd spent decades living and laughing with.

"You know what?"

He lets out a laugh. It's dry and it sounds more like he's about to keel over than show genuine happiness. It also seems like his heater were working overtime: splitting his voice into different pitches and screeches as his body seemed to fall behind his mind.

But it was clear his mind was in no better state. Those words seemed to tear him right open, peel back the bandages on a deep wound and— he seems to shatter.

"Fuck Hell; fuck Heaven, and fuck all of you."

He seemed to crackle with electricity, his voice occasionally wondering into just electrical noises for split seconds before returning to normal again. Next to normal.

"As long as I wipe that smile off Alastor's fucking face,"

A tear rolls down the right side of his face. It feels stark. The man was all hot air and structured words and ego, but it was like seeing something burning and raw from him. A hatred made from crystallised love that was bitter on his tongue.

"I don't care what happens."