Hubris
He has a headache, or what constitutes a headache for someone whose head is a television. It’s all static—that strange high-pitched frequency sound he remembers from old teleprompters, the kind that would make production assistants wince. Back when he had shoulders to shrug it off.
He’s groggy, trying to piece together what in the Hell just happened. Then he remembers. Everything. The power surge. The city-wide blackout. Valentino’s hands on either side of his screen, then the sickening pop of circuitry severing from his body.
He’s been mounted on the wall in Valentino’s room like a fucking trophy. There’s a network port below him somewhere—he can feel it, that phantom sensation of connectivity just out of reach. His cables strain toward it uselessly before sagging in defeat.
“You’re awake. Good morning.” He sounds so fucking chipper.
Val.
Vox looks up, says nothing. His screen flickers slightly—irritation, exhaustion, he’s not sure which.
“I’ve got a shoot in an hour. Vel’s gonna sit with you.” They haven’t left him alone. Not really. One of the two of them is always in earshot, like he’s on suicide watch. Or maybe they don’t trust him not to try something stupid again. Smart. “I’ll be back later.”
Val approaches, his movements fluid despite his height. He caresses Vox’s frame—fingers trailing along the edges where his screen meets the casing—and kisses him. It’s chaste, almost tender. Vox returns it because that’s what you do, but he’s still not ready to talk. Still not prepared to face whatever this conversation will eventually become.
“Bye, pappi.” One long, last caress.
It’s said so softly, so reverently, like Vox is something precious instead of something that nearly destroyed everything they’d built. He almost speaks—almost—but in a flourish of red wings, the moth is gone.
He should be angry. He should be furious. Valentino ripped his head right off his shoulders, after all. Literally tore him apart. But he’s not angry. He can’t be. The rage that usually burns so hot in his circuits feels… distant. Muted. He deflates again, screen dimming slightly.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Velvette walks in fifteen minutes later, head high, arms full of something. “Still not talking, huh?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, nods to herself. “Can’t scream at us when you’re too busy with the self-loathing bullshit.”
She pulls a small table over to where he’s mounted. She sets down a round glass bowl filled with water. “Got you a friend.” It’s said in a tone that suggests either he needs more friends or this will be his only one from now on.
Inside the bowl, a blue beta fish drifts lazily.
Vox stares at it. At her. He’s not sure how to feel. The absurdity of it wars with something uncomfortably close to gratitude.
“Thank you.” The words come out quieter than he intends. He doesn’t speak beyond that.
“Val wanted to call him Ray. Like Blu-ray or some shit.” Velvette sets a container of fish flakes next to the bowl, then drops onto the couch and immediately zones out on her phone: conversation over, apparently.
He watches the little fish swim in lazy circles. Its fins catch the light, iridescent.
He wants to ask her where in Hell she even found fish flakes, let alone a live beta fish. Instead, he whispers, “Hi, Ray. I’m your daddy.” His cable slinks around the top of the bowl to steady it. Two more cables carefully open the flakes; his fine motor control is shit without his body, and he sprinkles food onto the water’s surface. Ray darts up to eat, fins flaring.
And maybe this is a mercy he doesn’t deserve. Their time. Their presence. This tiny fish that depends on him not to fuck up something as simple as feeding it. He wants it, though. God, he does. He wants to deserve it.
Velvette’s sigh breaks the quiet. She looks at him over the back of the sofa, phone lowered. “You’re a fucking arsehole.”
“I know.” His voice cracks on the second word, distorting slightly.
“We cared about you! Val is still in fucking love with you!” She’s beyond exasperated, frustration bleeding into hurt. “Bloody fuck, Vox!”
He lowers his gaze to his fish. She does care too, she wouldn’t have brought Ray if she didn’t. Wouldn’t have thought about what he might need to keep from going completely insane, mounted on a wall.
“Say something!”
He can’t. Not now. The static in his head is getting louder, threatening to overwhelm his audio processors. So he focuses on the fish instead, watching Ray’s gills pulse. “I said thank you.” As if that answers everything. As if gratitude is enough.
She frowns when he dares look up. He lets his cables sag, lifeless.
“I’m—” The words don’t immediately come. The static surges. His face bounces from one side of his screen to the other in a violent twitch, a shake of his head. He’s done talking. Can’t do this right now. He turns off the screen, plunging himself into darkness.
It’s peaceful. Quiet, finally.
Fingers dance along his frame, gentle. Familiar.
“You’re our arsehole,” Velvette says, voice softer now. The fire and heat are gone, replaced by something almost fond. “This will always be your home.”
A pause. Her fingers still.
“But you don’t get to give orders anymore.”
He doesn’t turn back on. Just listens. Processes.
“Val and I have two-thirds of the company now.” She says it matter-of-factly, like she’s discussing the weather. “We’re making changes.”
He’s not surprised. He really isn’t.
He should be. The old Vox, the one from a week ago, a month ago, would be raging. Would be plotting how to take it back, how to manipulate and scheme his way back to the top. But that Vox nearly destroyed everything. Almost killed them all because he couldn’t see past his own fucking ego.
This Vox… floats in the dark behind his screen, feeling nothing but tired.
“Rest, luv. We’ll chat more tomorrow.” The couch creaks as she settles back into it, re-engaging with her phone.
He’s fucked. Powerless. Literally just a head on a wall with a fish for company.
But he’s also cared for, in ways he’ll never deserve. Gods, why don’t they just kill him?
His screen stays dark, but one cable remains curled loosely around Ray’s bowl. Protecting the one thing that’s entirely dependent on him not to fail.
Maybe that’s enough for now. Perhaps it’ll never be enough. Maybe that’s what got his head mounted on the wall instead of Alistor’s. Fuck.
