INT. VOXTEK TOWER - CONTROL ROOM - NIGHT
A sleek, dimly lit control room high above Pentagram City. The walls are a deep charcoal grey, reflecting the ambient glow from dozens of monitors that line the walls. Dominating the space are two massive, circular emblems of interlocking "M" shapes in vibrant turquoise and magenta, the VoxTek insignia, humming with an electric energy.
VOX, his television screen-head a vibrant magenta, stands before one of the glowing logos. His suit is sharp, tailored to perfection. His single, stylized eye is unblinking, the corner of his mouth curved into a satisfied smirk.
Beside him stands the DRONE, a figure in a form-fitting, glossy black latex suit that gleams in the low light. Her face is a blank, featureless mask, and her body is rigid, hands clasped loosely in front of her. Her eyes, visible through the mask, are a dull, vacant blue.
Vox's voice, a smooth and confident baritone laced with a low hum of static, breaks the silence.
VOX
(To the Drone)
See this, my little satellite? The perfect network. All the lines converge, all the signals flow to a single point. It's clean. Efficient. No messy, chaotic emotions to gum up the works.
The Drone remains still, her head angled slightly towards the glowing emblem as if programmed to observe. She does not respond.
VOX
You're a testament to the technology, you know. Far more advanced than these logos. They’re just branding, but you… you’re a masterpiece of control. Every thought, every action, perfectly calibrated. A true testament to the power of a superior broadcast.
He reaches out and lightly taps her arm. The sound is a soft, hollow thud against the latex. The Drone's head turns to face him, a slow, mechanical movement.
VOX
Are you happy, my little signal booster?
Her voice, when it comes, is a flat, synthesized monotone, a stark echo of his.
DRONE
Happy. I am happy.
Vox chuckles, a low, satisfied sound.
VOX
Of course you are. Because you are me. You are my will, my purpose. You don't need anything else.
He turns back to the emblem, his gaze sweeping over the glowing lines.
VOX
There's so much potential out there. So much noise. So many messy, unstable signals just waiting to be… corrected. And we'll correct them all, won't we?
The Drone’s head swivels back to the glowing logo. Her voice is a quiet, unwavering affirmation.
DRONE
Correct. We will correct them.
Vox nods to himself, his smug grin widening. In the cool glow of the control room, surrounded by his own brand, two perfect broadcasts stand in unison, ready to amplify their signal across the chaos of Hell.

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