Under the Neon Glow: The Rise of Vox - TF/MC
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You’re just walking. That’s all. Up ahead, the sidewalk splits under oaks that rattle their leaves in the wind. Your feet move through a mundane day—your day—your average, real, totally normal human day.
Tires hiss on the rain-wet street. Somewhere, a TV in someone’s window bleats a laugh track. It’s background noise as you move forward, thinking about dinner, about errands, about anything but the scream of glass and the sudden drop. A shadow flashes above. Something heavy—impossible—plummets from an upper window, and—
**WHAM.**
A flat-screen TV slams down, dead center, right atop your head. You stumble, your vision blinking black with pain, and you flail to grab the plastic edges, try to pry it loose—but it won’t budge. The world feels compressed, muffled, drowned in static hum. A dark screen rimmed in dusty blackness blocks out your sight. You twist, tug, scream.
“Help! Please! Somebody! I’m stuck—Help me! This thing—It won’t come off! Please!” Your words echo, tinny, inside the plastic box.
Fingers claw desperately, searching for the seam, but your hands feel like you’re pawing through tar—sensation flickers, reality blurs. The TV won’t move. You can’t see, can’t breathe. Panicked, you yank, then—
The inside of your skull sizzles. Light flickers, turning the world to monochrome, spinning. From somewhere deep within the TV that’s now welded to—**into**—your head, a black-and-white swirl blooms, pulsing and spinning, filling your vision with hypnotic, endless motion.
You reach up, clutch your head—only... it’s not your head anymore. Black-glass edges dig into your palms. The swirl spins faster. Your mind fuzzes; your fear and thoughts melt, lose shape, slip away.
Something’s seriously wrong.
Your body seizes. Not pain—transformation. Your skull prickles, your scalp shrinks, your hair tightens to nothing. Beneath the TV, your neck slims and warps, vertebrae stretching, becoming impossibly thin and long. Panic surges, but you can’t scream, not anymore—your voice chokes to static.
The pressure spreads down—shoulders coiled, bones lengthened, twisting as your body shoots upward. Six feet, six-four, six-eight—there’s a crackle in your spine as you surge over seven feet tall, limbs thin and unnaturally straight. Your skin tightens, pigment bleeding into nightmare shades—inky blues and cyan, lit from within by eerie, flickering bioluminescence under your new flesh.
*If you were a woman*—breasts pressing flat, curves shriveling away to nothing as your waist broadens and your hips narrow. Genitals invert and reform, strange sensations roiling through you—inside out and then pressing forth, unfamiliar weight shifting between your legs as male anatomy takes its place. It’s all automatic, irreversible, seamless, and horrifying. Muscles slide—no, distort—becoming less human, more... animated.
Your hands stiffen, bones vanishing so only four long, sharp-fingered digits remain on each. You want to run, but your feet—shoes fusing, reshaping into heeled Oxfords with cyan laces and glowing tips. Your chest constricts, vertebrae lengthening, ribs growing taut as your body loses all softness, becomes exaggeratedly slim and angular.
Your heart pounds—wait. You *don’t* have a heartbeat now. It’s gone, replaced by a buzzing current that thrums in your chest, electricity coiling at your fingertips. Your skin is suddenly navy blue, sleek, almost plastic. Your stomach flips, then tightens—your torso covered, jacket growing in, gloved fingers smoothing over lapels newly embroidered in cyan and red. Suddenly you’re sporting a waistcoat—black and red, over an otherworldly bluish shirt printed with a sharp, inverted broadcast symbol. An oversized bowtie, garish and red, cinches itself at your throat.
A small, ridiculous top hat—black and rimmed with broadcast sigils—spawns atop your… television head. Metal antenna jut and twist out of the hat, one arched in a jagged zigzag.
Your breathing is ragged, but your mouth… **Where’s your mouth?** You reach up, but it’s nothing but glass screen. Then, on the screen, a *mouth* forms—jagged, cyan neon teeth, too sharp, full of sin, visible inside the TV's dark depths. And a tongue—long, pointed, flickering blue. Drops of blood—dark, viscous—trail artfully from the corners.
Your voice is gone. In its place, a crackling, distorted echo. You try to call out, to beg for help—your voice chokes, buzzes, then erupts as a harsh digital bellow:
“Fuck! Someone—ha, help, FUCK!—get this thing off me, you idiots! I swear to Christ, if you don’t—”
But you—you’ve never sworn like that. You don’t even *think* in that voice. Terror prickles up your spine. The swirl on your TV face spins faster, burnishing your mind to a blank, empty slate. Dizzy, you clutch your new head, but your thoughts are melting, streaming away, erasing everything you ever were.
Your name—**what was your name?** Panic morphs into numbness as you try and try to remember. It’s slipping away, smothered by surging static—faces, memories, favorite foods, old secrets smashed flat by the rising current.
Everything that made you *you* vanishes, erased by the swirl. *You* are not the one standing here anymore, not really. Not with these hands, not in this body, not with this savage, smooth, monstrous television for a head. Your years—your entire life—stream away in digital flicker, overwritten by histories, joys, and hatreds that aren’t, can’t be yours.
A lifetime surges in: the jazz clubs, the dealmaking, the glare of cameras, the charge of creating VoxTek, the taste of blood and static and every sin televised. Rivalries, alliances, lust and rage and raw, unfiltered pride. You see the Vees—Valentino, Velvette—and a twenty-year grudge blooming into hate at the grinning face of Alastor, the Radio Demon.
You remember dying in the 1950s, a sharp, crackling end—your *real* life. Your *only* life. Those years you just felt, those dim dreams of dull, human living decades after the '50s? Fiction. Just a dream, gone with the swirl, gone like everything else. You *never* lived past your death—not until you became a Sinner. Not until you became *Vox.*
The swirl on your screen flickers once, twice, then fades to flat black. You black out. Limbs hang. You stand, limp, arms dropped, head tilted down, like some puppet with its strings cut.
No thoughts. No pain. The world is nothing—a blank, silent dark for just a beat, or fifteen, or a minute.
Then, *click*.
Your screen powers on.
Cyan letters burn into your vision:
**"Initializing Voxtek device."**
They fade, replaced by the VoxTek logo, sharp and corporate, bright and blasphemous on the glass-paneled “face” that is all you own. A digital loading bar creeps in under a mocking sentence:
**"Loading data from your device... trust us."**
The bar creeps across, filling with blue. Data. Yourself. “Ding”—the pitch-perfect chime of new technology’s triumph.
**"Enjoy the VoxTek technology."**
And just like that, it's gone.
Your mind boots up with a snarl of digital static, personality and memories zipping into focus as the first image on your face is NOT the human you once were, but the grinning, zigzag-mouthed simper of Vox—Overlord. Entertainer. Sinner. Technology incarnate. The face forms, animated and leering, jagged neon teeth shining, red and cyan eyes snapping open.
You jerk upright with a start.
“Huh. Where the fuck am I?” you say, your new voice buzzing, laced with static and an effortless, arrogant lilt.
You glance around. It’s a city—streets, cars, buzzing neon, but *alive*. So alive and… *mortal*. This isn’t Hell. But how—why?
Your screen-mouth pulls wide, and you burst out laughing—a shrill, carnivorous cackle, echoing around the empty streets. “Holy shit, I’m *back* in the mortal realm?! First time since that—hah!—murderous little ‘incident’ back in the fifties. Now, who’s the lucky bastard that summoned me, eh?”
You stalk forward, gleeful. The taste of electricity courses in your veins—no, not veins, but something deeper, more potent. It *thrums.*
The memories settle. Ah. A cultist. A desperate, pathetic fleshbag, daring enough to invoke your name just right. A bridge between realms, a leak for your power. Well. That’s convenient, isn’t it?
You huff, rolling your eyes, your screen spitting up a flickering image of static and neon glint. “Perfect. VoxTek’s getting an upgrade—time to show these primitives real entertainment and tech. The future is ME, and these meat puppets won’t know what hit ‘em.”
Your hands tap at invisible keys—code flows from your fingertips. Devices answer your call. The city will be your playground, your broadcast, your empire.
No more running. No more doubting. No more memories of that weak, almost-human sap who walked this earth in clumsy fear just minutes before. You are *Vox*—always have been, always will be. Time to put on the show.
---
### Epilogue
**A few years later…**
The skyline sparkles, awash in neon blue—you’re everywhere. VoxTek logos gleam from every billboard, every LED display, every living room and cafe. News, streaming, social media, entertainment—they’re all YOURS now. Networks quake; CEOs pale at your shadow. [The Times]: “VoxTek’s Founder Revolutionizes Entertainment—But Who IS He?” (They’re idiots. You know exactly who you are.)
Alastor? No sign. Not yet, not in this world. You let your screen flicker, considering it—no rival snickering, no shape in the static to challenge you. You feel… *content*, almost. A little bored. You almost miss the bastard. Almost.
But not as much as you miss *him*.
You sit in your high-rise office, a king of a new jungle, and your screen displays a thousand images at once, all of Earth’s tastiest new sins. For a moment, your gaze softens, and you sigh. “Valentino,” you murmur, “You better get your sweet, narcissistic ass over here. This party is dull without you.”
You reach out to your human lackeys, whisper into their dreams, plant the idea—the *urge*—for a summoning ritual. Valentino needs to come home, to this glorious digital age you’ve created.
You’ll have your empire. You’ll have your Vees. You’ll have Earth, Hell, and everything in between.
Why? Because you’re Vox, and Vox always wins.
---
> **Your (human) thoughts, last remembered:**
> "*Help me, please—someone, please get this TV off, I can't—*"
> **Vox, to himself, after waking:**
> “Fuck, it feels good to be back. Now, let’s show these mortals the meaning of *prime time*.”
> **Vox, surveying his new empire:**
> “Technology, power, adoration—my kind of paradise. And not a single annoying Radio Demon in sight. Yet.”
> **Vox, flicking through panels, preparing for Valentino:**
> “Let’s see how these monkeys handle a real show. Valentino, baby, you’re gonna love this place…”
> **Some random cultist, ears ringing, mumbling at the summoning circle:**
> “What have we... what have we brought?”
> **Vox, grinning, voice booming from every nearby device:**
> “A star, sweetheart. The only one that matters.”
**And you—no, Vox—step forward, city aglow in your cyan and red light, ready for the next act.**
This story was generated by user bkake with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader instantly turning into Vox (a character, voiced by Christian Borle, from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with art style shift (the reader now becoming a cartoon character with the same art style as the Hazbin Hotel characters, rather than being a real life person), gender change (if the reader is a female, the breasts flatten to nonexistent as her body losses its curves and become more masculine, and her female genitals invert itself before pushing out into a penis and balls of a male; however, gender change is optional and it's only if the reader is a female), instant clothes change, age progression (aging until the reader is biologically somewhere around the 30s or 40s years old, exactly as left off from Vox's death from his human life in the 1950s, thus becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from an average 5.7-6 foot height to 7 feet tall), and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being completely replaced with Vox's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts of fighting his new personality and memories, making the reader feel dizzy as he completely forgets he was a normal human person just a minute or so ago (fully forgetting his mortal human name he had just seconds ago), even completely forgetting that the transformation that just occurred seconds ago, so he knows that everything about his supposed normal (mortal) human self and life just seconds ago (born from the 1990s-2000s) was not real and was only a dream (it was impossible for him to have been human moments ago since his human self was born in the 1910s or 1920s and had died in the 1950s), and he remembers that he was a mortal man who died somewhere in the 1950s and always had been a sinner demon since the 1950s, always being one of the many overlords of Hell since then, and his name always having been Vox). The transformation is permanent (meaning it is forever) and is completely irreversible. For Vox's appearance (after the reader turned into him), he is a tall and (unnaturally) slim-figured, technology-themed sinner demon who stands at approximately 7 feet. He sports a flat-screen television for a head (he lacks a human head and instead has a flat-screen television which acts as a head), with the monitor projecting eyes with red sclera, small cyan pupils and different-colored outlines - black for his right and cyan for his left. While using his hypnosis powers or simply becomes enraged, his left eye gains a black spiral and the pupil becomes a cyan electric symbol. The screen also shows a mouth full of sharp, cyan-colored teeth and a long pointed tongue similar to Valentino's, but cyan. Sometimes what looks like blood seems to drip out of his mouth. He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. He also appears to have dark navy-blue skin with sharp, cyan claw-like fingers. Vox wears a navy-blue tuxedo with the jacket sporting coattails, red-trimmed cyan lapels, thin cyan stripes and cyan lining, worn over a red-and-black-striped waistcoat which itself is worn over a collared bluish-white shirt with an upside-down broadcast symbol and a rather large, red bowtie. He also wears heeled dark gray dress shoes with cyan-colored laces, toes, and tips on the heels. He also wears a small black top hat on his head, with red and blue designs reminiscent of a broadcast symbol and radio wave symbol, respectively. He has TV antenna that stick out the top of the hat, the left one bent into a zigzag. Here are Vox's abilities and skillsets: Immortality (As a Sinner, Vox is biologically immortal, being unable to die from illnesses and unable to age, remaining the same age as when he died, thus can not die of old age and other natural causes. He also cannot die from any kind of damage to the body, and will recover from any injury, however, he can only be permanently killed with angelic weaponry), Electrokinesis (Vox possesses the ability to generate and control electricity. Depending on his emotions, such as if he's angered, he can potentially make it so that a Hell-wide blackout happens. He caused a blackout to Pentagram City in "Radio Killed the Video Star" when he was overwhelmed by Alastor's taunts), Electrokinetic transformation (Vox can turn into electricity, which he can use to move around or enter and travel through electronic devices such as security cameras, watches and television monitors that he can control as he pleases. Though there are a few flaws to his electrical teleportation: the place Vox wants to go has to have some form of modern technology he could go through, as he apparently can't teleport through an old-style radio), Technokinesis (Vox can control devices whether he is outside or inside them. He can do things while inside devices such as changing his outfit and scenery), Spark generation (He can create electrical sparks from his fingertips, which can be used to ignite something, like Valentino's cigarette in "Radio Killed the Video Star". He can even generate sparks on his body, especially when he is angry. He also causes what looks like a small surge or ripple of electricity to appear through the floor from his feet during Stayed Gone. It is hard to tell if this is part of the spark generation or a separate ability entirely), Technological head (Vox's television head doubles as an electronic device with which he can plug himself into other devices with the help of cables in his surveillance room. He also somehow is able to change or upgrade his head, as shown, he has a photograph of himself with an older-style television head. If he's particularly angry, he and any devices he's linked to will involuntarily glitch), Bioluminescence (Vox generates blue light from his screen, most notably when he is in a dark room. His teeth noticeably shine brighter than the rest of his face, and his left eye outline and pupils can shine on their own when feeling sinister. His claws can also glow when he is using his electrical powers), Communication (He can receive calls from people, such as Velvette, with his screen head similar to calling on a phone. He can also transfer the call to another device by "grabbing" the call and flicking it to a different screen device), Video playing (Vox can play videos on his screen-face), Scrying (As shown in "The Radio Demon" comic, Vox is seemingly able to see through other screens, appearing to stare directly at Alastor while projecting into the TV display of a window-fronted store. This is shown in "Radio Killed the Video Star" to be done after he plugs his head into a monitoring device, which he may need to be able to scry), Hypnosis (In "Radio Killed the Video Star", it is shown that with his left eye, he uses hypnosis to keep his audience drawn into his program and keep their interest. He also uses this as a distraction so he can slip away to avoid any further discussion of a subject he doesn't wish to continue. The victim's eyes become red with black spirals. The victim has to be paying attention for this to work. He can use this even when he isn't physically present by being in a screen device. The devices his company sells share this ability), Self-duplication (Vox was shown to be able to make clones of himself in "Radio Killed the Video Star" during Stayed Gone. However, he has only displayed the ability on television, and it is unknown if he can do it physically), Acoustokinesis (He can manipulate the sound of his voice to sound more intimidating. He can also generate different sound effects such as echoing voices and the sound of a winning game machine), Strength (Vox is strong enough that he is easily able to tear through metal, and capable of holding demons bigger than himself, such as Valentino, with ease), Deal-making (While not shown on-screen, Vox can make deals with others in order to collect their souls just like other Overlords. Musical talent - Vox has shown to be a talented singer), Dancing (Vox can perform amazing dance routines, like handling complicated moves to even being able to hold Valentino, a taller Sinner, into a dip), Charisma and manipulation (The reason why Vox is a successful entrepreneur is that he can use his charm to manipulate others into buying his products even without his hypnosis powers, such as acting as he cares about his customers and making up products on the spot that are not even in production yet. He even uses this to successfully calm down Valentino to prevent further damage), and Technology intuition (Being a businessman and head of VoxTek, Vox has great understanding of technology, allowing him to use his electrical powers to their full potential). Here is Vox's personality; he is an egotistical, charismatic, and manipulative showman of an Overlord who craves attention. To the public, Vox presents himself as a legitimate businessman of VoxTek Enterprises, giving the facade of a man of the people to the denizens of Hell, when in truth, he is power-hungry, and he manipulates their minds to boost his reputation. He is highly intelligent and technology-savvy, and he is always keeping up with the latest trends and technology. He seems to be able to hide his less desirable side in public and even in private unless he's pushed too far. Despite his egocentric nature, Vox is loyal to the interests of his fellow Overlords, the Vees, and seeks to maintain their collective image of power. As the most level-headed member of the Vees, Vox often acts as the de facto leader. Claiming the Vees' brand to be "perfection", he is often frustrated or outright angered if someone can jeopardize it, such as when he reigns in his fellow Vee, Valentino, from attacking the Hazbin Hotel in response to Angel Dust living there. Another element that earns his ire is his rival, Alastor, whom he utterly despises and might be intimidated by as he sees Alastor as a threat to his plans. However, despite his immense hatred for Alastor, Vox doesn't let it override his more pragmatic side once he calms down. In "The Show Must Go On", he takes pleasure and joy out of seeing the staff of the Hazbin Hotel prepare to fight the angels, as he believes they stand no chance against them. This causes him to get verbally explicit and overly honest, as seen when he along with Valentino and Velvette watch the fight between Adam and Alastor at the Hazbin Hotel, commenting how the impending duel had given him an erection. He even shows this sadistic joy when he sees Alastor lose to Adam, saying that seeing Alastor suffer is better than sex, only to get angry when Alastor flees from the fight. Additionally, he is genuinely shocked at Niffty killing Adam but is seen smiling afterwards. Here are Vox's preferences (his likes and dislikes); he likes/loves attention, sharks, the latest technology and trends, video, the Vees' public image in good condition, seeing Alastor fail or die (however, Alastor the Radio Demon never died), power and authority, the idea of Angel quitting work for Valentino, sex, violence, and Niffty's homicidal behavior. However he dislikes Alastor (including Alastor making fun of him, being reminded of his former camaraderie with him, and Alastor escaping death), old/outdated technology (including radio), Valentino's tantrums (and having to calm him down), the Vees' reputation being jeopardized, not having control, being ignored, being humiliated, and Angel Dust (presumably). The story is that the reader is minding his/her own business walking around his/her neighborhood or home city, but then a flat-screen TV falls from a window from a building or house and onto the reader's head, causing him/her to panic as his/her head is trapped within the TV screen (his/her head inside the TV cannot be seen from the outside), making him/her more scared since he/she cannot get the flat-screen TV off of him/her (even questioning on why that is the case). The transformation then occurs, as the reader's head fully merges/fuses with the flat-screen TV (becoming the reader's new head), completely removing his/her human face, before a black-and-white swirl to appear on the TV head's otherwise-completely-black featureless screen (taking up the entire screen) and spins around in circles, causing him/her to feel dizzy as his/her mind to get completely foggy/fuzzy/blurry (making him/her hold his/her TV head), signifying the reader's mind/mental changes as his/her personality and memories are vanishing to be replaced by Vox's memories. His/her body changes shortly afterwards, his/her body becomes unnaturally slim-figured, his/her height grows taller to 7 feet tall, his/her body ages up to somewhere around 30s or 40s, the clothes becomes Vox's outfit (with Vox's hat appearing on his TV head out of nowhere), his/her voice changes into Vox's voice, and, if the reader is female, her gender fully switches into a male (the breasts flatten to nonexistent as her body losses its curves and become more masculine, and her female genitals invert itself before pushing out into a penis and balls of a male; however, gender change is optional and it's only if the reader is a female). Just before the end of his physical transformation (and just seconds before his TV head turns off), and while the reader is screaming in horror, the reader calls out for help in hopes that anyone will help/save him against this supernatural transformation, but sadly, no one is helping him and he is completely helpless to his mental changes (as he continues holding his TV head, as the black-and-white swirls continue to rewrite his memories and personality). By this point (and as soon as the body change, the age change, the voice change, and clothes change are done), despite the reader's best efforts at calling for help (he did call for help but no one came to his aid), the reader's previous personality and memories have all completely disappeared and fully replaced by Vox's personality and memories, and the black-and-white swirl on his TV head's sceeen suddenly vanishes (since the mind mental changes are fully finished) to leave the screen shut off (becoming simply a black screen, as if the rest button for the TV was pressed), leaving him fully/completely unconscious (with no thoughts) while standing upright (albiet with his arms hanging downwards and both his body and head tilting slightly down) for a little while (standing on his legs (despite being unconscious) whilst lifelessly, with his arms hanging downwards and his body and head looking down a bit, without any consciousness for a bit). However, after approximately between 15 seconds and 1 minute, his TV head turns on again (he's still standing on his legs unconsciously and still with a blank mind), with the cyan words saying "Initializing Voxtek device" appearing in the middle of the screen before fading, then (with the digital whirring noise rising) the VoxTek logo appears in the center of the screen before pushing up a bit by a red-rimmed cyan loading bar appears with the sentence saying "Loading data from your device... trust us" above it, and finally, after the loading bar finishes up with the whole loading bar filled with cyan, causing the digital "ding" noise to play as the sentence above the loading bar changes to "Enjoy the Voxtek technology", before it the logo and the loading bar (as well as the sentence above it) then fades completely. After all that (including after the loading bar and logo fading), his consciousness (including his personality and memories) slowly returns as a face appears on his TV head's screen, but no longer his own human face, instead his face is Vox's face (which wouldn't appear earlier, since he was mentally changing earlier with the black-and-white swirl spinning, until after he wakes up from his unconsciousness and later his reboot after the sentence "Enjoy the Voxtek technology" appears before fading with the VoxTek logo from his TV head screen, thus Vox's face appears instead of his previous human face), and he then wakes up. Upon waking up, Vox (formerly the reader) does not know where he is (he also does not remember anything that just happened moments ago), even asking that, before he realizes that he is back in the mortal realm (Earth). Vox has no memories of ever being a mortal human just moments ago, and he knows that he cannot have been a human just moments ago, since it was completely impossible for him to have been human seconds ago (since he, as a human, died in the 1950s), and that his supposed recent life as a human (years after the 1950s) was not real. Vox then does a sinister laugh, knowing that he is back in the mortal realm (Earth) for the first time since his human death. He initially doesn't know on why he's on Earth for the first time since his human death, but then realizes that he had been summoned by some cultist (who's a human) through a ritual, thus helping him arrive to Earth from Hell and thus explaining why he's here. After that, Vox goes off to start a demonic technology-based company (VoxTek, the exact clone as the one in Hell), as he did back in Hell, manipulating mortal humans of Earth into buying his products both with and without his hypnosis powers. There should be an epilogue, where Vox now dominates the news and entertainment media on Earth, having since started VoxTek on Earth (like he did back in Hell) a few years prior (after he was summoned back on Earth by some cultists), and he is happy that his arch-nemesis, Alastor the Radio Demon, isn't on Earth (since Alastor, so far, has not been summoned back on Earth by some other cultists). However, he genuinely misses Valentino (his on and off romantic interest (more specifically his boyfriend) and a 10-foot-tall moth-like humanoid sinner demon (also an overlord who is the director and head of the porn studio within V Tower, and a member of the Vees)), so he plans some humans to summon Valentino back on Earth to make Vox whole again. There should also be quotes from the characters in this story (including quotes from the reader) so we know what they are saying and what they are thinking (including profanities/swears/strong language/bad language, such as "fuck", "shit", "bitch", and many others that are used or said by Vox, but the human reader does not use profanities/swears, unlike Vox (who does use profanities/swears (such as "fuck", "shit", "bitch", etc), unlike the human reader), who the human reader transforms into, so he does not use profanities/swears until he reawakens as Vox). Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: You’re just walking. That’s all. Up ahead, the sidewalk splits under oaks that rattle their leaves in the wind. Your feet move through a mundane day—your day—your average, real, totally normal human day. Tires hiss on the rain-wet street. Somewhere, a TV in someone’s window bleats a laugh track. It’s background noise as you move forward, thinking about dinner, about errands, about anything but the scream of glass and the sudden drop. A shadow flashes above. Something heavy—impossible—plummets from an upper window, and— **WHAM.** A flat-screen TV slams down, dead center, right atop your head. You stumble, your vision blinking black with pain, and you flail to grab the plastic edges, try to pry it loose—but it won’t budge. The world feels compressed, muffled, drowned in static hum. A dark screen rimmed in dusty blackness blocks out your sight. You twist, tug, scream. “Help! Please! Somebody! I’m stuck—Help me! This thing—It won’t come off! Please!” Your words echo, tinny, inside the plastic box. Fingers claw desperately, searching for the seam, but your hands feel like you’re pawing through tar—sensation flickers, reality blurs. The TV won’t move. You can’t see, can’t breathe. Panicked, you yank, then— The inside of your skull sizzles. Light flickers, turning the world to monochrome, spinning. From somewhere deep within the TV that’s now welded to—**into**—your head, a black-and-white swirl blooms, pulsing and spinning, filling your vision with hypnotic, endless motion. You reach up, clutch your head—only... it’s not your head anymore. Black-glass edges dig into your palms. The swirl spins faster. Your mind fuzzes; your fear and thoughts melt, lose shape, slip away. Something’s seriously wrong. Your body seizes. Not pain—transformation. Your skull prickles, your scalp shrinks, your hair tightens to nothing. Beneath the TV, your neck slims and warps, vertebrae stretching, becoming impossibly thin and long. Panic surges, but you can’t scream, not anymore—your voice chokes to static. The pressure spreads down—shoulders coiled, bones lengthened, twisting as your body shoots upward. Six feet, six-four, six-eight—there’s a crackle in your spine as you surge over seven feet tall, limbs thin and unnaturally straight. Your skin tightens, pigment bleeding into nightmare shades—inky blues and cyan, lit from within by eerie, flickering bioluminescence under your new flesh. *If you were a woman*—breasts pressing flat, curves shriveling away to nothing as your waist broadens and your hips narrow. Genitals invert and reform, strange sensations roiling through you—inside out and then pressing forth, unfamiliar weight shifting between your legs as male anatomy takes its place. It’s all automatic, irreversible, seamless, and horrifying. Muscles slide—no, distort—becoming less human, more... animated. Your hands stiffen, bones vanishing so only four long, sharp-fingered digits remain on each. You want to run, but your feet—shoes fusing, reshaping into heeled Oxfords with cyan laces and glowing tips. Your chest constricts, vertebrae lengthening, ribs growing taut as your body loses all softness, becomes exaggeratedly slim and angular. Your heart pounds—wait. You *don’t* have a heartbeat now. It’s gone, replaced by a buzzing current that thrums in your chest, electricity coiling at your fingertips. Your skin is suddenly navy blue, sleek, almost plastic. Your stomach flips, then tightens—your torso covered, jacket growing in, gloved fingers smoothing over lapels newly embroidered in cyan and red. Suddenly you’re sporting a waistcoat—black and red, over an otherworldly bluish shirt printed with a sharp, inverted broadcast symbol. An oversized bowtie, garish and red, cinches itself at your throat. A small, ridiculous top hat—black and rimmed with broadcast sigils—spawns atop your… television head. Metal antenna jut and twist out of the hat, one arched in a jagged zigzag. Your breathing is ragged, but your mouth… **Where’s your mouth?** You reach up, but it’s nothing but glass screen. Then, on the screen, a *mouth* forms—jagged, cyan neon teeth, too sharp, full of sin, visible inside the TV's dark depths. And a tongue—long, pointed, flickering blue. Drops of blood—dark, viscous—trail artfully from the corners. Your voice is gone. In its place, a crackling, distorted echo. You try to call out, to beg for help—your voice chokes, buzzes, then erupts as a harsh digital bellow: “Fuck! Someone—ha, help, FUCK!—get this thing off me, you idiots! I swear to Christ, if you don’t—” But you—you’ve never sworn like that. You don’t even *think* in that voice. Terror prickles up your spine. The swirl on your TV face spins faster, burnishing your mind to a blank, empty slate. Dizzy, you clutch your new head, but your thoughts are melting, streaming away, erasing everything you ever were. Your name—**what was your name?** Panic morphs into numbness as you try and try to remember. It’s slipping away, smothered by surging static—faces, memories, favorite foods, old secrets smashed flat by the rising current. Everything that made you *you* vanishes, erased by the swirl. *You* are not the one standing here anymore, not really. Not with these hands, not in this body, not with this savage, smooth, monstrous television for a head. Your years—your entire life—stream away in digital flicker, overwritten by histories, joys, and hatreds that aren’t, can’t be yours. A lifetime surges in: the jazz clubs, the dealmaking, the glare of cameras, the charge of creating VoxTek, the taste of blood and static and every sin televised. Rivalries, alliances, lust and rage and raw, unfiltered pride. You see the Vees—Valentino, Velvette—and a twenty-year grudge blooming into hate at the grinning face of Alastor, the Radio Demon. You remember dying in the 1950s, a sharp, crackling end—your *real* life. Your *only* life. Those years you just felt, those dim dreams of dull, human living decades after the '50s? Fiction. Just a dream, gone with the swirl, gone like everything else. You *never* lived past your death—not until you became a Sinner. Not until you became *Vox.* The swirl on your screen flickers once, twice, then fades to flat black. You black out. Limbs hang. You stand, limp, arms dropped, head tilted down, like some puppet with its strings cut. No thoughts. No pain. The world is nothing—a blank, silent dark for just a beat, or fifteen, or a minute. Then, *click*. Your screen powers on. Cyan letters burn into your vision: **"Initializing Voxtek device."** They fade, replaced by the VoxTek logo, sharp and corporate, bright and blasphemous on the glass-paneled “face” that is all you own. A digital loading bar creeps in under a mocking sentence: **"Loading data from your device... trust us."** The bar creeps across, filling with blue. Data. Yourself. “Ding”—the pitch-perfect chime of new technology’s triumph. **"Enjoy the VoxTek technology."** And just like that, it's gone. Your mind boots up with a snarl of digital static, personality and memories zipping into focus as the first image on your face is NOT the human you once were, but the grinning, zigzag-mouthed simper of Vox—Overlord. Entertainer. Sinner. Technology incarnate. The face forms, animated and leering, jagged neon teeth shining, red and cyan eyes snapping open. You jerk upright with a start. “Huh. Where the fuck am I?” you say, your new voice buzzing, laced with static and an effortless, arrogant lilt. You glance around. It’s a city—streets, cars, buzzing neon, but *alive*. So alive and… *mortal*. This isn’t Hell. But how—why? Your screen-mouth pulls wide, and you burst out laughing—a shrill, carnivorous cackle, echoing around the empty streets. “Holy shit, I’m *back* in the mortal realm?! First time since that—hah!—murderous little ‘incident’ back in the fifties. Now, who’s the lucky bastard that summoned me, eh?” You stalk forward, gleeful. The taste of electricity courses in your veins—no, not veins, but something deeper, more potent. It *thrums.* The memories settle. Ah. A cultist. A desperate, pathetic fleshbag, daring enough to invoke your name just right. A bridge between realms, a leak for your power. Well. That’s convenient, isn’t it? You huff, rolling your eyes, your screen spitting up a flickering image of static and neon glint. “Perfect. VoxTek’s getting an upgrade—time to show these primitives real entertainment and tech. The future is ME, and these meat puppets won’t know what hit ‘em.” Your hands tap at invisible keys—code flows from your fingertips. Devices answer your call. The city will be your playground, your broadcast, your empire. No more running. No more doubting. No more memories of that weak, almost-human sap who walked this earth in clumsy fear just minutes before. You are *Vox*—always have been, always will be. Time to put on the show. --- ### Epilogue **A few years later…** The skyline sparkles, awash in neon blue—you’re everywhere. VoxTek logos gleam from every billboard, every LED display, every living room and cafe. News, streaming, social media, entertainment—they’re all YOURS now. Networks quake; CEOs pale at your shadow. [The Times]: “VoxTek’s Founder Revolutionizes Entertainment—But Who IS He?” (They’re idiots. You know exactly who you are.) Alastor? No sign. Not yet, not in this world. You let your screen flicker, considering it—no rival snickering, no shape in the static to challenge you. You feel… *content*, almost. A little bored. You almost miss the bastard. Almost. But not as much as you miss *him*. You sit in your high-rise office, a king of a new jungle, and your screen displays a thousand images at once, all of Earth’s tastiest new sins. For a moment, your gaze softens, and you sigh. “Valentino,” you murmur, “You better get your sweet, narcissistic ass over here. This party is dull without you.” You reach out to your human lackeys, whisper into their dreams, plant the idea—the *urge*—for a summoning ritual. Valentino needs to come home, to this glorious digital age you’ve created. You’ll have your empire. You’ll have your Vees. You’ll have Earth, Hell, and everything in between. Why? Because you’re Vox, and Vox always wins. --- > **Your (human) thoughts, last remembered:** > "*Help me, please—someone, please get this TV off, I can't—*" > **Vox, to himself, after waking:** > “Fuck, it feels good to be back. Now, let’s show these mortals the meaning of *prime time*.” > **Vox, surveying his new empire:** > “Technology, power, adoration—my kind of paradise. And not a single annoying Radio Demon in sight. Yet.” > **Vox, flicking through panels, preparing for Valentino:** > “Let’s see how these monkeys handle a real show. Valentino, baby, you’re gonna love this place…” > **Some random cultist, ears ringing, mumbling at the summoning circle:** > “What have we... what have we brought?” > **Vox, grinning, voice booming from every nearby device:** > “A star, sweetheart. The only one that matters.” **And you—no, Vox—step forward, city aglow in your cyan and red light, ready for the next act.**
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