It had all happened so fast.

And it had all happened because of Vox.

Maybe it was stupid to not expect it. Maybe the signs were there.

It wasn't like he had ever been stable. Vox was impulsive, and most certainly had a few disorders fuelling it. And the climax of his episode was this. Who gave him an angelic cannon?

The trigger cause was most certainly Alastor. From the moment that he had escaped from Vox's grip, the latter had been frantic. He'd been waiting maybe seventy years after all, and Vox treated it like the world had crumbled around him just the same as that very day.

In that moment, he didn't see a point anymore: his whole view had collapsed and he was just desperate. Desperate to get Alastor back, desperate to prove himself and wipe that smile off his face. A spite-fuelled manic mess.

You couldn't be mad at Valentino for stopping maybe out of hurt, or envy, or maybe logic for once. The manner of it was... Interesting, but excusable.

The moth gave Vox a string of harsh words, planted a kiss on his lips and tore Vox's head off his body. No way to fire a cannon now!

It probably wasn't the first time, and sinner demons were immortal anyway. Vox just accepted his fate as a little TV-head to carry around, but couldn't accept that it was over. That he was still alive along with Alastor and the other wasn't looking his way. He wouldn't stop whining about that.

"Well, seems like I got a little... Carried away.

The way he speaks, not exactly nonchalant but trying to brush it off like some cartoonish politician being asked about something they most definitely did. He just sounds silly. Maybe that's what he wants— so he at least gets pity forgiveness from Valentino and Velvette. But, they were both staring at him like he'd grown a second head instead of losing his.

...Wouldn't it be lost his body? His head was the bit that was still functional and him. Who knew. Maybe a philosophy whizz.

Vox lets out a somehow throaty chuckle, rolling his eyes and keeping up his very much unenthusiastically perceived excuses. It's not like he's stupid, but he's incredibly stubborn.

"You guys—"

That awkward little stammer he does when trying to form something useful and smooth.

"You guys know me, right?"

His screen glitches in an unusual way that looks noticeable. The usual blue becomes black and white, his face nearly snuffed out behind the static and flashing specks of nothingness. And it clearly does hurt, since he immediately winces and lets out a noise of pain that's too near to a whimper for a man like him.

He seems to almost gain clarity then, or at least it's finally obvious he knows damn well he isn't getting back in Valentino or Velvette's good books with a few smooth words. They were mad at him before he lost his shit.

With a swift inhale, the face displayed on his screen shrinks into something tiny; awkward, comedically stupid looking like he's still trying to garner favour— even if it's with a stupid question he knows the answer to because he'd been compulsively checking the whole evening.

"How's my approval rating?"