The corner booth was a pocket of deeper darkness in the already dim bar. Vox —Vincent— was folded into it, his usually technicolor expression, now a study in grayscale misery. His screen was nearly dark, the display emitting only a faint, despondent hum inside the casing, and the barest flicker of a dying cathode ray tube. His red tie was loosened, the knot askew. He'd been nursing the same glass of rye for an hour. It was Alastor’s favorite, a bitter reminder of a hope what was so cruelly crushed, moisture gathering a wet ring around the grimy tabletop.

When a figure slid into the seat across from him, he didn't even flinch. He just began tracing the circle with a clawed finger, his movements slow and heavy. For a long moment, the only sounds were the bar's moody jazz—another reminder—and the quiet hiss from his screen.

"Go on, you can say it," he finally murmured, his voice raspy and unenthusiastic, the usual broadcast clarity and the charm both gone. It sounded like a worn-out record. He didn't look up. "That I'm a real chump. A sap."

He let out a short, sharp burst of static that might have been a laugh in another life. "I put it all out there, you know? Everything. Showed him the future, bright and shiny... and he just laughed. Laughed right in my face." He finally lifted his head, and the screen flickered weakly, showing a distorted, wavering frown. The light in it was dull, defeated. "He made me feel... small. Like some square trying to sell encyclopedias door-to-door." He gave a weary, empty gesture with his hand. "So, pull up a seat. Misery loves company, or so they say."