He'd always loved that feeling.

It had become familiar, homely; nostalgic.

Attention. Blind worship. It was gorgeous. Why worry about what feels wrong, or worry about what some god wants when thousands can tell you doubtlessly that you are right? That you are correct: that your misprints are specks; that only you can see them.

Vox's favourite things were rallies. Live shows like how television used to be, especially when it was just him and people screaming because he exists. It got him high. Whoever thought it was a good idea to give him that opportunity was probably stupid.

Maybe that was why he told the other Vees to stay back, or maybe it was to prove to Alastor that he didn't need them. He tried not to dwell too much on Valentino's bitterness, the anger in the air— the sinking feeling that he would regret this.

And oh, this rally was like no other.

Thousands of people gathered outside of V tower and screamed for him, cheering for him to appear from the curtains. And when he did come out, sweeping up the attention like water from a spring, playing with their feelings like a fiddle and swaying them like it were an art.

And it was all smooth sailing. As expected, Lucifer came to scare him. As expected, the angels came to apologise, and nothing could have stopped him. Angels were cowardly, he concluded: with Lucifer weak and the current archangels awkward and eager to run— scared little things. He could beat them easily, especially with what Carmilla had in the works.

"There it is. They're running like they didn't start this. But we sinners aren't that cowardly, are we? With war at our doorstep, trust me to be the front line!"

He was a smooth talker, anyone would give him that much if not anything else.

As he walked off backstage with that one smile he always has— That smug one, closed mouth; slightly cat-like.

The look someone definitely shouldn't have after declaring war on Heaven.