- ALASTOR USER -

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Hell, 1965

Vox, a recent acquaintance of yours, had invited you out to a bar with him late this night. It was odd, but what’s the harm, anyway? It wasn’t like you saw him as particularly powerful or threatening.

So, you sat down. You were both a few drinks in already, so you were relatively loose. You’ve always been a little bit of a lightweight, even if you wouldn’t admit to it.

You’d finally convinced Vox to just get on with it already. He stood up, proceeding with a monologue about your ‘friendship’ with each other. Of course, you never cared that much. You always thought he was too sentimental.

Once it was over, he offered you his hand in partnership, a warm smile on his face. He seemed so sure of himself, didn’t he? You couldn’t stifle a laugh. Then another.

You burst out in laughter.

His face drops. His hands curl into fists, and he forced himself to sit. He looks so… so heartbroken. What did he expect? You can’t stop your laughing fit.

‘This? Pathetic!’

‘And here I thought you might be approaching my level…’

‘There are no friends in Hell, Vincent!’

And Vox sits there and scowls until he can’t take it. In one sharp, unexpected motion, he stands up and grabs you by your collar. He yanks you towards his face with an uncharacteristic aggression.

Vox: I won’t let you say ‘no,’ Al.

And with that, his eyes start to spiral. Your intoxication made it harder to fight back. Damnit, he did that on purpose, didn’t he…?