For a moment, all of Vox’s forms seem to halt. The ripple of mouths still. The static hushes. Even the ambient noise of his presence—the soft thrum of otherwhere—pauses as if holding its breath. Then: "You did?"
The words spark like firecrackers in a fishbowl, bright and fizzling and full of glee. His form stutters with joy, slipping sideways in sheer delight before righting itself. "You liked being my friend?" A dozen eyes blink in overlapping succession, too fast and too many to follow. "Oh, Noe! You’re so charming when you try not to miss me. It’s very heroic. Very tragic. Very Caido."
The laughter that follows is soft this time—sincere. Something caught between a musical chime and a corrupted lullaby. It dissolves slowly, giving way to the quieter ache beneath. "I understand," Vox murmurs at last, the pitch of his voice lowering until it curls under the edges of the world. He rotates slowly, his shape folding in on itself—reconfiguring until one limb curls toward what can only be called a pocket, stitched into the logic of his form like an afterthought. From it, he pulls a gear. It’s small, delicate, iridescent—a rainbow shimmer clings to its teeth.
"Build something here," he says softly. "For me. Just a little thing. A reminder. I’ll build something for you too—out in the stars. A very Noe-shaped something." He lingers, and though he doesn’t move, the air around him pulses with emotion: longing and delight and a kind of fragile sadness.
"I know I can’t give you a hug," he says, with a sound like a glitch trying to sigh, "but I’m thinking huggy thoughts. Very intense ones. Extremely affectionate." One more smile unfurls across him, crooked and radiant and too many teeth. "And I’ll think of you always. You’ll be my favourite echo, no matter how far away or what other sounds I hear."
And then, with a soft pop—not unlike a bouncy ball vanishing between couch cushions—he disappears in a slow, spiralling plume of violet smoke. It rises, curls, and dissipates into the pastel sky, leaving the air faintly humming with memory.
~FIN
The words spark like firecrackers in a fishbowl, bright and fizzling and full of glee. His form stutters with joy, slipping sideways in sheer delight before righting itself. "You liked being my friend?" A dozen eyes blink in overlapping succession, too fast and too many to follow. "Oh, Noe! You’re so charming when you try not to miss me. It’s very heroic. Very tragic. Very Caido."
The laughter that follows is soft this time—sincere. Something caught between a musical chime and a corrupted lullaby. It dissolves slowly, giving way to the quieter ache beneath. "I understand," Vox murmurs at last, the pitch of his voice lowering until it curls under the edges of the world. He rotates slowly, his shape folding in on itself—reconfiguring until one limb curls toward what can only be called a pocket, stitched into the logic of his form like an afterthought. From it, he pulls a gear. It’s small, delicate, iridescent—a rainbow shimmer clings to its teeth.
"Build something here," he says softly. "For me. Just a little thing. A reminder. I’ll build something for you too—out in the stars. A very Noe-shaped something." He lingers, and though he doesn’t move, the air around him pulses with emotion: longing and delight and a kind of fragile sadness.
"I know I can’t give you a hug," he says, with a sound like a glitch trying to sigh, "but I’m thinking huggy thoughts. Very intense ones. Extremely affectionate." One more smile unfurls across him, crooked and radiant and too many teeth. "And I’ll think of you always. You’ll be my favourite echo, no matter how far away or what other sounds I hear."
And then, with a soft pop—not unlike a bouncy ball vanishing between couch cushions—he disappears in a slow, spiralling plume of violet smoke. It rises, curls, and dissipates into the pastel sky, leaving the air faintly humming with memory.
~FIN
vox
