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“The other studios wanna feed you the same old crap everyone’s seen before.”
This is what everything in his life was building up to. Everything he was born to achieve— no matter what his sorry excuse for parents had to say. No matter how many people tried to stand in his way. Vincent knows he was destined for greatness. For everyone to follow his lead so he could rise above all. He’s proved it time and time again.
“You want newer, you want bigger, you want brighter!”
So why…
“I will be your voice and we will redefine what it means to rule the airwaves. Trust me and your future will be brighter!”
How was he supposed to know the televisions weren’t connected properly?
“Now, who’s ready to be baptized into a new era of entertainment!”
It happened so suddenly. One moment he’s holding the biggest orientation of his career, the next… the next a wire snaps, and his pride and joy crumbles around him.
Every cell in his body is being fried, torture by the ends of the perfect tool for his uprising. It’s unbearable being cooked alive and feeling his skin burn away, but it’s nowhere near as heart wrenching as losing everything he’s strived for up to this moment.
He falls, and the room falls with him. One accident wiping out years of hard work in one fell swoop. How tragic.
Vincent wouldn’t have called himself very religious, he wasn’t exactly a disciple of God, but he couldn’t say he didn’t believe in the chance of there being some kind of afterlife. He doesn’t know what to expect if it does exist, but he knows he’s not getting into the good place.
It’s dark for some time. His consciousness barely together long enough to string thoughts or feelings to put to the situation. He’d think this was peaceful if he was able to do so at all. He’s unable to know how long he was like that for, but after an arbitrary amount of time he gets the tangential sense something has started changing. There’s a fleeting moment where his mind pulled taut long enough for him to feel the extent of what’s happening, and he’s so glad his mind is usually to scattered to experience most of it.
His body— or what’s left of it— was mending itself and reshaping into whatever fate saw fit. His limbs snapping and elongating, his skull cracking and reforming over and over, his flesh patching itself and tearing again the longer the process goes on. The moments his mind comes together to form coherent thoughts and feel the brunt of every sensation he’s experiencing, it’s all the same.
What’s happening… It’s gross… It hurts… Why me… among numerous other observations he can make out of himself while stuck in this seemingly endless abyss.
Then in a flash, it’s over, and red floods his vision.
He barely has time to register anything that’s just happened to him or his surroundings when he notices he’s miles above the ground. Whatever reformed him gives him two seconds to take in his situation before he’s sent hurtling towards the floor.
“HOLY SHIT WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK!!!”
Every inch of him kicks into survival mode, but how the fuck is he supposed to stick the landing and live from a million feet in the air??? No matter how much he flails his arms around or kicks his legs, it’s not going to slow his descent to any degree. Everything is made a million times worse when his sight starts to get blocked out with static.
The last thing he sees before he hits the ground is a pile of feathers.
Slowly, Vincent comes to from his impromptu stupor. His entire body is sore, and it’s almost like he has to learn to open his eyes again before he can glimpse the world around him, but when he does all he can see is static. He groans and tries to prop himself up to get off the floor, but his head feels so heavy. He has no idea what’s going on—
“You’ve finally woken up I see.”
Vincent snaps his head up towards whoever spoke and instantly regrets the action. With the motion, whatever is causing his head to weigh so much nearly breaks his neck at the speed he flung it back.
“You must be new here. Don’t go hurting yourself already.”
‘Yeah no shit Sherlock.’
Vincent doesn’t voice his thought, not wanting to piss of the first person he meets. He lets his head fall against the floor again, mildly concerned at the scrapping sound he hears when his forehead collides with bricks. Finally able to take a minute to think, everything that happened up to this point quickly comes back to him.
The feathers, the fall, all the red, his joints morphing and snapping, the complete darkness… and his ascension. Or, his would be ascension. It was torn away from him at the last moment and now he’s here… where ever here is.
Looking up, slowly this time, the static covering his vision fades enough for him to glance around and take in the immediate vicinity. There’s a lot of red, it’s basically the only colour in the area. Though in the middle of it all is probably one of the most breathtaking people he’s ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. He can’t’ focus on any of that now though— he can schmooze later— right now he needs to get his bearings.
He slowly gets up, unused to his limbs after whatever leg lengthening ritual happened within that void. Bringing his hand up to try and rub away his headache, he stalls when instead of skin or hair he touches hard plastic. Plastic he could feel…
His movements become frantic as he fully stands and tries to feel any portion of his head that’s normal, but all he finds is more plastic; including knobs, dials, and ports he knows aren’t random. He knows the shape of this like the back of his hand— he centred his whole movement around it, but he refuses to believe that’s what he’s come to. Even if he can feel every inch he’s touched, even if there’s a lack of his hair he’s spent hundreds to make sure is well kept, it’s not true. It can’t be.
He goes to tap his face with one of his hands, hoping beyond anything he touches skin and not a flat screen, but stops just shy when he gets a closer look at his hand.
Sharp pointed fingers lay directly in his line of sight. Easily visible through the static haze with how brightly they were coloured— a striking neon blue. The skin attached to the now claws a deep navy blue. Vincent flicks one finger, and the hand in front of him moves accordingly. He goes to tap his face.
…
Glass.
…
He can’t hold in his laughter— everything is collapsing around him again. He was supposed to be a god! Now he’s been reduced to some walking program!
Vincent clenches the sides of his head— trying not to hyperventilate or claw into the chassis in his panic. Though the moment he nearly puts a dent in it, you come over and softly grasp his hands with your own.
“Hey. You’re fine.”
His eyes snap to look at you. Your face conveys no emotion— at least none he can make out in his state— and does little to calm him down. His head is a fucking television! What do you mean he’ll be fine???
“FINE!? HOW IS THIS FINE WHEN—”
“Believe me, you look better than a majority of the sinners down here. Having a box for a head should be the least of your concern.” You pull his hands away from his head and shrug loosely, as if this is an everyday occurrence and he’s not currently losing his mind, “But if you want to continue throwing a crisis you can. This is a secluded area after all. Not many are allowed here and there’s no one else to see but me, and I don’t care.”
You let go of him and wipe your hands on your clothes, an action he wishes he could feel more offended by if he wasn’t just panicking over himself. Though it does force him to get his head on straight.
‘Right. Vincent you just met this person, stop being a pussy and put a lid on it. This is already a terrible first impression.’
He takes a step back from you and smooths out his clothes, needing the extra time to better compose himself. He ignores the fact what he’s wearing— a shirt with puffy sleeves and a sweater vest— is definitely not what he was wearing before. There’s more important things to get answers to first, like where he currently is. Even if looking around and all the previous events gives him a vague idea already, he needs it confirmed before he starts planning anything.
“Thanks, I guess…” He can’t help himself from touching his head again, the light tap of the plastic against his claw causing him to wince, “Am I…”
“Dead?” You tilt your head and cross your arms, an action Vincent finds cute despite the lack of any emotion in your tone, “Yes. You’re a demon now. Welcome to Hell sinner.”
Vincent sighs, “Of course I died as soon as I was about to reach perfection.”
He glances around the area again now that the static covering his vision has mostly gone away. The sky is red with a little white dot he can only assume is heaven of in the distance (of course the righteous would love to flaunt their eternal peace over the damned), the dirt is a deep red, the brick pathway he’s standing on is a washed out red— almost everything is red apart from the tables and chairs nearby and all the plants around the area. Though the shrubbery is varying colours of black and green, it seems most of the flowers are still red.
He’s been here for no more than five minutes and he’s already sick of the colour. Still, there’s a lot less… chaos than he would’ve expected from what he’s grown up learning is supposed to be eternal damnation.
“Hell is… Not exactly what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
Vincent looks you dead in the eyes, not really believing you wouldn’t know what he’s talking about, but you look genuinely curious of his answer. Maybe you weren’t an American? He hopes that’s not the case. You speak english just fine so it might be something else.
“Fire and brimstone? Endless torture and suffering for all eternity? Maybe desolate and complete isolation. The Devil showing up to poke everyone with sticks I don’t know!” He paces waves his arms around to try and emphasize his point and nearly nicks himself on a rosebush, not used to how much longer his limbs have gotten.
You raise a brow at his display, “The Devil is a pansy. He wouldn’t do that.”
Okay, now you actually must be fucking with him. He has to pause his pacing to stare at you— really look at you. He needs to know if you’re pulling his leg here, but you’re completely guarded and extremely hard to read.
Then he realizes The Devil is still the least of his worries right now and circles back around to voice his original intent.
“Never mind that then. Are we in a specific part of Hell or what? You said this was a secluded area earlier, right?”
You nod and walk over to one of the taller pushes to pluck a rose, “Yes. This is my private garden. Normally your kind wouldn’t be allowed in here, but I decided to make an exception for you today. Seeing as you fell out of the sky and knocked yourself out on my back, it felt wrong to kick out someone so painfully new.”
…
One thing at a time—
Okay, so private property still exists here. He can surmise money and some form of society is down here too then, given how you talked about it. Saying ‘Your kind’ raises many questions about your nature but he can get back to that. That last thing though…
Vincent takes a deep breath, “I… fell on top of you?”
Without warning you spread your wings he didn’t notice were even there and take off— kicking up a gust of wind that makes him instinctually cover his eyes with his arm. You don’t go very far, only to the edge of the garden that has what he assumes is a workbench to pick up a pair of clippers. A few feathers fell loose in your short flight and float down in front of him, which he takes in are the exact same ones he noticed before he blacked out again.
“Made quite the mess of my feathers. I haven’t had the time to clean them up yet.”
Your voice makes him tear his gaze away from the fallen feathers back to you, but his eyes immediately zone in on the wings you’ve yet to tuck back in. It’s completely unfair he got stuck with this large inconvenient electronic box for a head while you actually get something useful. Despite how ruffled they are, the glow from the sky bounces off in a way that also makes them look so soft. And he almost ruined them…
Holy shit this is the worst first impression he’s ever left in his entire life.
He has to breath in again. Even with the little quirks and occasional nonsense you spewed, you obviously got a handle on your life down here already. A decent one in fact, given you own such a large chunk of land and are able to keep others out of it. It’d do him well to get on your good side and stay there until he gets footing himself. He refuses to turn into a beggar.
As Vincent’s about to muster up some form of apology and start spinning his tale, you come over and place the rose you were holding in his breast pocket— all thorns already cut off. He doesn’t get the time to thank or question you before you knock on the side of his head and start speaking.
“What did you do to get stuck with this tin can for a head?”
He pushes your arm away from him and rubs the side of his head with a glare. He wishes you’d explain things to him before saying weird shit like he was supposed to understand the first time.
“What the hell are you talking about—” He stops there, then feels the need to correct you encase you’re actually just some square and have no idea what a TV is, “It’s a television not a tin can.”
You shrug, “A sinners new body is supposed to correlate with their death and an integral part of their life. So, what did you do to get a… Television as your head?”
“You want to know that and not why I’m here?” He’s honestly baffled and he’s sure he sounds like it even through the warbled static his voice has become. Maybe you are just old— he hasn’t been able to understand a single one of your actions this whole time.
You go back over to the rosebush to pluck a few more and clip them at the workbench, “Everyone down here has done something terrible, I can’t bring myself to care anymore. I’ve never seen or even heard of this television thing before, so if you don’t mind indulging me while you’re here.”
You had to have been down here a while then. For you to not know one of humanities latest and greatest inventions you had to either be a square, live under a rock, or have been dead for a while. Everything is pointing to the latter in your case, and if so he can definitely make it big bringing TV to the masses. If he can convince you to support him that’d be a major boon for business. Time to do what he does best.
Vincent walks over to stand next to you, taking care not to trip over his long legs, “I worked with them a lot in life. They’re a fantastic invention that helped me get were I was before I ended up here. I guess it only makes sense this is what I’d end up with.”
You hum and continue cutting the roses. He obviously needs to learn more about you so he can convince you to join his cause, so he decides to segue to another topic he’s still curious about.
“What did you do in life to land yourself an incredible pair wings like these?” He tries to touch the wing closest to him, but you flinch it away and he watches them disappear into your back. At least he knows he wasn't blind.
You huff and the edge of your lips twitch upward, your voice sounding a twinge more amused as you speak, “Curious are you? You haven’t even graced me with your name.”
If Vincent has a brow he knows it’d twitch, but he’s still unsure where his face is at right now. “I’ve told you plenty about myself already, and all I know of you is that you own a very nice garden.”
“A garden I’m currently allowing you to stand in after having my feathers tousled by you. I believe I have the right to ask a few questions and receive answers in turn. Unless you’d rather I show you the door.”
He has the urge to grumble, but stops himself since he’s still right next to you.
“Then allow me to uphold my manners. Well, I’m sure manners don’t matter much down here, but you saved me from embarrassing myself so I can spare some for you.” He takes a step away from you and raises one of his hands to shake, “Vincent Whittman. Former weather reporter turned god of entertainment.”
You huff again, but don’t bother holding back your smile this time as you shake his hand and tell him your first name. You still wipe your hand on your shirt afterwards and he’ll continue to overlook it. He got a positive open reaction out of you so he’ll roll with it for now.
“No last name for the mysterious gardener?”
You shrug and bring your attention back to the roses on your bench, “Those down here usually forgo their last name. I assume to be harder to research or as a new start, since a not insignificant amount also change their first name upon arrival as well. The less someone knows, the less can be used against you.”
Vincent knows that mentality all to well, but now he’s planning on being untouchable. It won’t matter if people know who he is. He doubts they’ll find anything they could use against him anyway. You on the other hand— he needs to know as much as possible to convince you to follow him. If the first step is to learn your last name, he’s getting it.
Given both times you’ve touched him of your own freewill you’ve wiped off whatever imaginary germs you think he has on your clothing, he restrains himself from placing a hand on your shoulder. He goes to lean against the workbench instead, minding the flowers and invading your space just a little.
“That may be true, but I gave you mine. Seems only fair to fully exchange the pleasantries.”
You don’t answer him for a while, only glancing at him and continuing to mess with the flowers. It’s long enough Vincent starts to second guess himself and slightly back up. Thankfully you answer before he starts to run his mouth.
“Alright.” You bunch all the roses together and wrap their stems with silk rope before presenting them to him with a small smile, “I am a Morningstar. Child of Lucifer and Lilith; second heir to the thrown behind my sister. It’s been a pleasure so far Mr. Whittman. I hope it stays that way.”
Oh…
Oh he’s hit the jackpot.