The embrace ends with a sound like a VHS tape getting rewound through a meat grinder. Vox twirls Talyson once more—because he can—before gently, lovingly, horrifyingly lowering him to the sand. s[ay]"There ya go, my crunchy little blood sausage. So brave! So stabby! We’ll work on your hugging technique next time."
A pat lands on the top of Tal’s head. It is tender. It is gentle. It is—staticky enough to fry a frog.
But then—
Noe.
NOE.
Vox’s head does a slow 180º turn, not because he needs to, but because the drama demands it. She’s walking away. His Noe. Guided by her heroic entourage, back to health, back to order, back to everything he’s not.
His glasses fog from the inside.
His hat wilts.
"You were the corrupted whipped cream to my static-laced sundae," he mourns, melting in pixels onto his knees. "Noe, my little terminal glitch…"
A long, painful pause.
Then he snaps upright like a poorly-written script note, eyes (???) blazing.
Pierce is moving and so Vox moved with him. He dissolves. Gone is the hat. Gone are the sunglasses. Gone is any pretense of shape at all. Static pours into the air like a broken transmission signal, violet and pulsing, orbiting the brawler in an ever-tightening cyclone.
"GET ‘EM, BROTHER!' Vox howls like a radio gone feral. "I’M YOUR TACTICAL BLANKET. I’M YOUR VIOLENCE AURA. I’M YOUR SUPPORTIVE LITTLE DEATH FOG."
He swirls tighter around Pierce, watching, waiting, buzzing with violent love. And the moment someone gets within striking distance—
Vox holds his turn and will strike out to infect anyone who comes within melee distance to attack Pierce.
A pat lands on the top of Tal’s head. It is tender. It is gentle. It is—staticky enough to fry a frog.
But then—
Noe.
NOE.
Vox’s head does a slow 180º turn, not because he needs to, but because the drama demands it. She’s walking away. His Noe. Guided by her heroic entourage, back to health, back to order, back to everything he’s not.
His glasses fog from the inside.
His hat wilts.
"You were the corrupted whipped cream to my static-laced sundae," he mourns, melting in pixels onto his knees. "Noe, my little terminal glitch…"
A long, painful pause.
Then he snaps upright like a poorly-written script note, eyes (???) blazing.
Pierce is moving and so Vox moved with him. He dissolves. Gone is the hat. Gone are the sunglasses. Gone is any pretense of shape at all. Static pours into the air like a broken transmission signal, violet and pulsing, orbiting the brawler in an ever-tightening cyclone.
"GET ‘EM, BROTHER!' Vox howls like a radio gone feral. "I’M YOUR TACTICAL BLANKET. I’M YOUR VIOLENCE AURA. I’M YOUR SUPPORTIVE LITTLE DEATH FOG."
He swirls tighter around Pierce, watching, waiting, buzzing with violent love. And the moment someone gets within striking distance—
Vox holds his turn and will strike out to infect anyone who comes within melee distance to attack Pierce.
vox
