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Benji (my little bat sinner oc) knew Vox in life and was tricked into...we'll say death to put it delicately. Now that the overloard is just a glorified ipad Benji swoops in to take his revenge.
The screen feels heavier than Benji expects.
Not physically—though it does weigh way more than what he’d imagine the thin screen should weigh, humming faintly with static—but emotionally, like carrying a still-beating heart.
In a twisted way, he kind of is.
Vox’s body is gone. Torn apart in the aftermath of the calamity caused by the gate buster’s near explosion, scattered in pieces Benji doesn’t bother to look for. What remains is the screen: cracked at one corner, spiderwebbed fractures distorting the image that seems to be trying to become a face. The image flickers between error screens and Vox’s face, eyes blazing electric blue.
“Put. Me. Down.”
Benji adjusts his grip instead, tucking the screen under his arm like an old busted television rescued from the curb.
“I’m taking you somewhere safe,” he says mildly. “You’ll like it. It’s very… therapeutic. Think of it like a spa visit.”
Vox laughs—sharp, glitching, too loud for just a head.
“You think this is funny? You think you won?”
Benji pauses just outside the Hazbin Hotel, neon lights reflecting faintly off the glass of Vox’s screen. He looks down at him, really looks, and for just a second Vox sees something old there. The trembling writer. The boy who waited outside locked office doors.
Then it’s gone, replaced with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No,” Benji says. “But I think I’m tired of losing.”
He carries Vox inside.
Posted using PostyBirb
Benji (my little bat sinner oc) knew Vox in life and was tricked into...we'll say death to put it delicately. Now that the overloard is just a glorified ipad Benji swoops in to take his revenge.
The screen feels heavier than Benji expects.
Not physically—though it does weigh way more than what he’d imagine the thin screen should weigh, humming faintly with static—but emotionally, like carrying a still-beating heart.
In a twisted way, he kind of is.
Vox’s body is gone. Torn apart in the aftermath of the calamity caused by the gate buster’s near explosion, scattered in pieces Benji doesn’t bother to look for. What remains is the screen: cracked at one corner, spiderwebbed fractures distorting the image that seems to be trying to become a face. The image flickers between error screens and Vox’s face, eyes blazing electric blue.
“Put. Me. Down.”
Benji adjusts his grip instead, tucking the screen under his arm like an old busted television rescued from the curb.
“I’m taking you somewhere safe,” he says mildly. “You’ll like it. It’s very… therapeutic. Think of it like a spa visit.”
Vox laughs—sharp, glitching, too loud for just a head.
“You think this is funny? You think you won?”
Benji pauses just outside the Hazbin Hotel, neon lights reflecting faintly off the glass of Vox’s screen. He looks down at him, really looks, and for just a second Vox sees something old there. The trembling writer. The boy who waited outside locked office doors.
Then it’s gone, replaced with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No,” Benji says. “But I think I’m tired of losing.”
He carries Vox inside.
Posted using PostyBirb
Category All / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 1620 x 2160px
File Size 3 MB
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