It seemed that just as soon as Vox determined that Grace wasn’t to leave his sight, situations kept arising for which he couldn’t have her present. The latest of which seemed to really leave him in a lurch; so after mulling over his options—none of which he deemed as good as watching her, himself—he abruptly snatched her by the wrist and leaped into the nearest camera with her in tow.

On the other end of this wire-surfing? The second-to-last place in which Grace wanted to be: Valentino’s studios.

More specifically, Valentino’s studios while in use.

Grace winced; everything here left her sick to her stomach.

The blinding stage lights. The overbearing heat from said lights. The sounds—chatter, slapping of skin against skin, the filthiest conversation to ever assault Grace’s ears, moaning, whimpering, squishing. And the smells.

Oh, god, the smells.

She could almost taste the debauchery, and for someone who loved sex as much as she did, Grace was shockingly revolted by it.

She was not one to judge sex workers for their choice in vocation but just now, witnessing a live show very much against her wishes, she couldn’t fathom how any of them could be doing any of those things. Least of all in front of other people and a camera.

Cameras.

On one bed in the nearest alcove, a massive bull demon kneeled as he thrusted into the ass of an androgynous demon with plant-like features, the plantish demon lying on their side with one leg extended between the bull’s knees and the other bent over the bull’s thigh.

Well … Grace pursed her lips. Maybe I could fathom doing that with Alastor.

Her heart promptly lurched at the thought and she swallowed hard. I miss him so much.

“Val!” Vox yelled, causing Grace to jump in her spot.

A few moments later, the fifty-stories-tall moth pimp emerged from behind a closed door with Velvette tailing him closely.

“You’ll let me know how this formula works?” Velvette asked Valentino, craning her neck to meet the towering Overlord’s gaze.

“Of course, of course, just as soon as I can, querida.”

Why can’t you be the kind of bug that mates once and dies? Preferably a praying mantis or scorpion. Get decapitated or dismembered by your partner—holy shit, how gratifying that would be!

Despite her thoughts, Grace kept her expression neutral, as if she wasn’t at all fazed by anything happening around her.

“What do you want, Vox?” Valentino asked with thinly-veiled patience.

Grace thought, simply, heh.

Vox shoved Grace toward Valentino; she stumbled several steps before regaining her balance. Fucker, fucker, fucker!

“Watch this for me,” Vox said of Grace. “I’ll be back before the top of the hour.”

She continued to look unbothered in the face of Vox’s far-too-obvious attempt at dehumanizing her. This kind of pathetic behavior brought to mind the things her friends’ older siblings always did to them; the less it effected them, the more it frustrated the bullies—which, judging by the darkening of the blue on Vox’s screen, was every bit as successful with him.

Pathetic man-child. How he got to be in charge of anything is absolutely amazing!

Velvette and Valentino, on the other hand, did little to hide their opinions of Vox’s demand.

“We’ll catch up later,” said Velvette—Grace presumed to Valentino, although it was addressed to nobody specific—and excused herself from the studio with a flippant wave over her shoulder.

“Do not so much as think about doing anything with Violet,” Vox warned Valentino before disappearing into the nearest camera. “I mean it, Val.”

Valentino scowled something that sounded suspiciously akin to “motherfucker using me like a baby-sitter.”

Grace reluctantly turned to meet Valentino’s gaze.

By all means, they should have gotten along famously. After all: he liked dick. She liked dick. In a competition of who was hornier, they would, in all likelihood, tie.

Valentino’s smile changed at her eye contact and she was uncertain if that boded for her well or poorly.

Oh, come on, Grace! He’s a piece-a-shit Vee. This is not good.

“Kitty!” Valentino bellowed. “Get Vixen a robe! One of the nice ones!”

What is this? Despite her resolve to maintain her poker face, Grace couldn’t resist her eyebrows pinching together.

“You’re cold,” the towering Overlord said with a wave toward—she assumed—her protruding nipples. “And I can’t have you distracting my actors.”

Grace crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously.

Valentino’s little robot-clown-assistant-thing zipped up to her with a plush red bundle of fabric draped over her arms. Grace accepted it, stifling a small shiver of disgust; the robe was reminiscent of Valentino’s coat.

And it would likely light up like the Times Square New Years Eve ball if she shined a blacklight on it.

Kitty wordlessly excused herself and Valentino nodded at Grace. “Let’s go.”

Go where?

Grace knew that reply would do her no good.

No, thank you.

Politeness and proper grammar aside, nor would that.

She swallowed a lengthy sigh. “Lead on,” Grace whispered, all but resigned to her fate, “I follow.”

Valentino guided Grace out of the main room, using a startlingly gentle, open-palmed touch beneath her right elbow.

Wordlessly, he sat Grace in the co-director chair beside the one emblazoned with Valentino across the cloth back rest.

Grace sat there, her body rigid but mind a racing jumble of thoughts and emotions. She took in that soundstage as casually as she could, although internally, she was mapping out every possible escape route.

Valentino again hollered, this time for his absent cast and crew. While he awaited their assembly, he rotated in his chair to face Grace, resting one of his too-many-arms on the edge of the back rest.

“That big, bad TV man is neglecting you, pobrecita.”

Grace pulled the robe closed more tightly over her chest. “What?”

“Poor thing,” Valentino translated with an agitated edge to his voice.

“I know what pobrecita means,” Grace snapped, perhaps a little more defensively than she intended. “I grew up in Imperial Beach!”

The moth’s eyes widened. So, too, did his smile.

She specified, “What do you mean Vox is neglecting me?”

“¿Estás sediento?”

“Yes,” replied Grace haltingly, her eyes widening. “I’m parched! How did you know?”

“Your eyes are sunken and your lips are dry.”

Grace did not care to discover how observant and astute he was.

What else was she inadvertently broadcasting to him? How would he take advantage of it? She had to trust—because what other option was there?—that he wouldn’t dare defy Vox’s commands.

Valentino once more bellowed for Kitty and had her retrieve a refreshment for his temporary ward, which—naturally—Grace accepted with considerable reluctance.

She sniffed it, the carbonation tickling her nose. “What is this?”

“It’s a Shirley Temple,” Valentino replied. He added with an exaggerated eyeroll—for her benefit, she assumed—“Not everything has to be laced with something, ciervita. Sometimes a soda is just a soda.”

Yeah? Grace thought wryly. And sometimes a soda is drugged.

But, much as she hated it, Valentino was right and her thirst won out over her distrust. She swirled the drink, watching as the ice spiraled along the bottom of the glass, before finally taking a tentative sip. Grace couldn’t believe her tastebuds; by all means, the liquid in that cup tasted just like a Shirley Temple. A Shirley Temple and nothing else.

She waited before drinking more, pretending to be engrossed, instead, in the activity on the stage.

Reality was, she was waiting for something.

Anything to indicate something had been added to her drink.

Nothing.

No closed-up throat. No dizziness. No drowsiness. No swollen tongue.

Grace proceeded to nurse the drink to satiate her thirst.

“You really should stay here with me,” Valentino remarked casually between barking orders at his staff. “We’d have such fun! I wouldn’t keep you cooped up and lonely. I wouldn’t let you starve and dehydrate.”

His kind words, smooth voice, and melodic accent lulled Grace until her perpetual anxiety about being at Vee Tower all but vanished. Her rigid posture in the chair relaxed bit by bit until she was more a boneless conglomeration of demon slumped over the armrest than she was anything else.

“It’s a shame we didn’t meet under different circumstances, y’know,” Grace drawled. The fuck am I saying?! “We share a common interest.”

Valentino tipped his head toward her questioningly.

“Mi apetito sexual te agotaría.” Wait. What?!

“Such a shame,” he agreed through clenched teeth.

Whereas earlier, that response might have worried or frightened her, Grace agreed blithely, “I know, right?” She tilted her cup against her lips before realizing there was nothing left in it. She then turned it toward him in demonstration. “Any chance I could get another? I’m still pretty thirst. Thirsy. Thirst—thirstyyy!” She laughed at her own expense.

“Lo siento, pequeña amante. That was the last of our grenadine.”

“Oh. Well. Shit. That was real good.” She tittered although nothing here and now was particularly titter-worthy.

“Do you know you have an adorable laugh?”

Grace smiled then sighed heavily. “I haven’t heard anything like that in … a whole lifetime.”

Valentino clucked his tongue. Once. “Another shame.”

A shapely little scantily clad canid demon ran up to Valentino’s chair. Breathlessly, she announced as greeting, “Tiffany got sick!”

“So?” Valentino replied impatiently. “If it’s runny enough, snot can be used as lube.”

“I gave a runny-nose BJ, once,” Grace reminisced aloud. “Sloppy as all fuck, but he hardly complained.” She added around a chuckle, “Hardly lasted, for that matter! Which was good ‘cuz I could hardly breathe!”

“Fucking Vox telling me I can’t have you,” Valentino growled, his complexion darkening.

‘I mean it, Val.’

What would Vox do if Valentino disobeyed him? I wonder how much convincing it would take for Val to defy Vox?

In a flash of sudden clarity, Grace had the most wicked idea; and if her estimate of the passing of time was even remotely accurate, it would have no adverse consequences. At least, she thought wickedly, not for me.

“I can take Tiffany’s place.”

Why did those words sound like they’d come from Grace’s mouth?

Suddenly, it was dead-silent, as if all Pentagram City heard the announcement and waited with baited breath to see what came next.

Valentino shifted in his chair to regard Grace.

“I’m not getting my needs met.” It wasn’t untrue while she and Alastor were estranged. And it was only semi-untrue while they were together. “I’m starved, Valentino, in more ways than one. I’m so desperate—for touch, for connection—to feel desired! I’ll take anything I can get. Anyone I can get! Male—female—neither, both, I don’t fucking care!” She stood, teetered for a moment as the room seemed to be somehow out of sync with her movements, and shrugged out of the borrowed robe.

Grace went from being cold to sweaty. Then, to sell her sudden change of heart about working for Valentino, she lifted her Voxtek blue shirt over her head and dropped it at her feet atop Valentino’s robe.

Valentino watched in what appeared to be confused—or maybe suspicious—silence.

Grace swallowed hard and took a loud, shaky breath. She blinked several times to both clear the tears burning her eyes and to try to focus her blurring vision.

“You’ve gotta have someone who’s willing to fuck me for money! They can dominate me, degrade me, abuse me. Treat me like a queen or a deviant.” She reached around her back, fumbling for her bra’s hooks and eyes with rapidly declining dexterity. “I don’t care, I just need a fucking orgasm!”

Her thoughts were clear and sharper than ever so why was her body so disconnected from everything?

She cussed under her breath but finally unhooked her bra, letting it slide down her arms and drop unceremoniously to the floor.

“I’m at your mercy.” Come on, Valentino! Take the literal fucking bait! Be useful to me for once! “Immortalize me!”

He was likely grappling with taking a long-awaited opportunity versus the implied consequences of defying Vox’s wishes.

Grace debated asking Valentino who really ran the Vees. Poking at another falsely inflated ego. No—that would make it way too obvious even to him what I’m trying to do here.

Valentino smiled slowly. “You just gave me the most brilliant idea.” He beckoned for the canid demon who, in turn, leaned in dutifully as if she didn’t fear she wouldn’t get every STI known to man by merely breathing in the same air as Valentino. He whispered in her ear; her tail wagged. She nodded, and then scurried toward what Grace had assumed were the dressing rooms.

“We need to make some small changes to the set,” Valentino said thoughtfully, “and you need makeup. We don’t have much time. Then again, he probably won’t need all that much time, if his history’s taught me anything.”

Grace’s legs wobbled and she plopped herself, topless, back into her chair. Her tits bounced so much with the motion that they shook her frame. 

Sure, this was a risky game, but the racing heart and heavy breathing seemed a bit overdramatic.

A vaguely male-presenting plant-based demon appeared before Grace’s eyes and she wondered how she missed him approaching her. He set a caddy down on the floor at Grace’s feet and rose with a kohl pencil in hand. Valentino’s makeup artist, she assumed, as he applied her eyeliner.

He put a gentle hand to her chin and lifted it when her head was too heavy for her to keep up, herself, so that he could apply her mascara.

What’s happening?

Where am I?

Grace struggled to turn her head toward Valentino’s now vacant director’s chair. When had he left?

She swallowed thickly, a brief wave of nausea washing over her.

“Picture it,” Valentino announced as he walked out of the maybe-dressing-rooms. With a grand gesture of his arms, he described, “Estranged lovers reuniting for a night of drunken, sordid hate-fucking. No-strings-attached, no promise of tomorrow!”

Grace blinked, shook her head to try clearing it. Razor-sharp wit now felt like it had dulled into something that could give someone tetanus just by looking at it.

All wicked grin, Valentino took a wide step to his right. Behind him stood Dick Cumlander.

Travis.

Panic welled in Grace’s chest. She tried to protest verbally but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

No—anyone but him—god, please, no—

why the fuck can’t I get these words out?!

“Valentino!” a voice roared amid heavy static. “How fucking dare you!”

Blue talons snapped closed around Grace’s wrist. She glanced up—sort of, anyway—as Vox’s frame eclipsed the sizzling stage lights.

Tears of relief spilled down her cheeks but while Vox wasn’t looking at her, she set what she hoped was a pleading expression at Valentino. A please-don’t-let-the-mean-blue-TV-man-take-me-back expression.

Valentino jutted out a hip and pressed a black-gloved fist into it. “She—”

There was a brilliant flash and when Grace opened her eyes again, she saw the ceiling of her Vee Tower bedroom.

Vox was nearby, scowling and spitting expletives.

Grace sat upright as best she could, pulling the cover over to conceal her bare breasts—not that Vox really seemed to care about them. 

Where in fuck’s name is my top?!

“Brooding like a little bitch in his radio tower, if I had to guess,” Vox snarled.

I said that aloud. Did I say this aloud?

If she had, Vox didn’t respond to it. He did, however, turn a crazed stare at her. 

Tears once more welled in her eyes. One thought remained in the wadded-up newspaper and dry hay that was Grace’s consciousness.

“Oh, my god, Vox, thank you!” she bawled. “Val was gonna force me to perform! I begged him not to, I reminded him that you wouldn’t like it! He—he—he—” She could scarcely catch her breath between sobs. “Bu—but—that only encouraged him! He said—he—you have no right telling him what to do and you’re—not—the boss of—of—everyone—”

Vox’s whole screen darkened, Grace assumed in fury. “Wash that whore shit off your face, Shrinking Violet,” he snapped. “And don’t even think of leaving this room. I’ve gotta have a word with that fucking moronic moth!”

In a flash, Vox was gone.

Grace wiped the tears from her face, took a few moments to catch her breath and regain her composure. She must have been on the verge of hyperventilating because now she felt about to faint.

She flopped back on the mattress, then rolled onto her stomach.

Closing her eyes didn’t make the vertigo ebb.

This felt similar to that time she tried a skunky-tasting brownie made by the older brother of one of her friends.

Oh, my god! That fucking drink was laced with something! I knew it!

As soon as the thought materialized in the abyss that once housed her brain, it vanished and she couldn’t recall the musing even a moment later. It was as if she’d never thought whatever it was she’d thought.

In her rapidly waning consciousness, limbs all leaden, limp, and altogether useless, Grace prayed whatever poison was coursing through her veins wouldn’t somehow kill her permanently.

Though maybe nothingness is better than this.

And just like that, Grace’s already lousy situation escalated.

I need to pee.

The bathroom could have been in the mortal realm for as able-bodied as Grace was to get there.

This is worse than that time I tried to come up with my own Family Guy cutaway gag.

Oh, wait.

That’s me.

Right now.

I’ve gotta pee, she thought, as if just now realizing it.

God, the bathroom is so far away.

I can wait.

What am I waiting for?

Oh, shit. I have to pee!

Grace wondered how she’d let herself wait so long. If she delayed her journey to the bathroom any longer, she’d soil her bed and sincerely doubted anyone would bring her fresh bedding. Ever.

The need to relieve herself became the only thought she could recall.

Grace lifted herself up onto weak, wobbling arms and dismounted the bed in more of an uncoordinated fall than anything else.

She rested there a few moments with her forehead against the carpet. This is somehow much less fun when Al’s hoovies aren’t here for me to kiss.

In this case, it was a blessing to immediately forget that thought.

Bit by bit, Grace turned 180 degrees and did a modified army-crawl that was more wriggle than actual locomotion all the way to the bathroom.

Winded and dizzy, Grace gazed up at the toilet. Oh, for crap’s sake! When was my shitter replaced with Willis Tower?! Worst Ninja Warrior obstacle course, ever!

I really, really fuckin’ need to pee!

And getting up to the toilet seat seemed an impossible task.

On the one hand, pissing the tile in the bathroom would be an easy clean-up—should Grace ever recover her faculties. On the other hand, pissing on the floor beside the toilet seemed obnoxiously like pissing at the finish line.

Her already piss-poor coordination was deteriorating by the second and soon she feared there would be nothing left in her world but urine and cold bathroom tile.

Despite that, her weakness, and her inability to hang on to a single thought for the afterlife of her, Grace clawed her way up the porcelain throne where she then teetered precariously just long enough to empty her bladder.

Grace roused.

She rolled over in bed, flinching against the light streaming in through the open window. The curtains clearly weren’t going to draw themselves so Grace resigned herself to getting up and drawing them with her own two hands.

Her leg muscles protested as if she’d run a marathon yesterday. “The fuck?”

Additionally, apparently, Grace had fully undressed at some point overnight.

When she attempted recalling any details from the prior evening, there was a whole lot of nothing. And her memories leading into the nothingness of last night? More nothing.

“Hope I didn’t do something I might regret.” Having been in a bed in Vee Tower—naked—didn’t instill her with confidence that she’d made good decisions yesterday.

She approached the window with all the finesse of an inebriated panda and yanked the curtains closed.

Grace encountered a trail of garments on her way to the bathroom; judging by appearances alone, it looked as though she’d shed them when leaving the bathroom rather than on her way in.

It was just pants and underwear. No shirt or bra to be found.

“That’s—uh—” Grace chuckled nervously. “That’s not concerning, whatsoever.”

It was also not annoying at all to be left braless while trapped in Hell’s equivalent of the Mos Eisley spaceport in Star Wars: a wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Wish I had even one change of clothes, thought Grace wistfully as she scooped the underwear and pants from the floor and set them on the counter.

Maybe a shower would help jog her memory of yesterday, or at least help to clear her head. So she opened the shower faucet, adjusted the temperature until it was to her liking, and stepped inside the glass-doored enclosure.

The glass fogged-over quickly as Grace scrubbed herself down.

I was with Vox.

He doesn’t want to leave me alone.

But he’s not in my room with me right now.

Why isn’t he here right now?

She applied the shampoo to her hair and, for once, spared herself an ounce of kindness by giving herself a scalp massage. The shampoo bubbled up until she was more foam than demon.

Vox isn’t here to monitor me because he doesn’t need to …

and he doesn’t need to monitor me because … because —

“I was incapacitated last night.”

Memories from the last 24 hours didn’t come flooding back. They appeared at random, out of order, and obnoxiously slowly.

“I was an idiot. I dropped my guard around a well-known sexual predator and—and—he fucking roofied me!”

She knew better than to trust Valentino; she was really more mad at herself for being so foolish than she was mad at Valentino for behaving in his character.

To be mad at Valentino because I readily accepted a drugged drink from him would be like being angry for a rattlesnake envenomating me after grabbing it by its tail and trying to use it like a bullwhip.

Oh, he was nice for two seconds. Maybe he’s changed. Hur-dur-derpy-dur!

“Fucking moron!” Grace hissed at herself.

She took a steadying breath and rinsed the shampoo from her hair. It dawned on her as she turned off the shower head: “Did I tell Valentino I wanted to do a porn for him? Oh, holy fuck, I did!”

That’s where her bra and shirt had vanished to.

He was gonna make Travis fuck me on camera. I—did—

Grace exhaled hard, her eyes widening.

Vox came back to get me and saw—

A disbelieving huff escaped her slightly parted lips.

I set them up.

I made it look to Vox like Valentino defied him.

And they both bought it!

The disbelieving huff turned into a chuckle, then the chuckle to full-blown crazed laughter.

“You’re playing with fire, Gracie, and got singed,” she warned herself between gasping breaths. She clutched her laugh-sore sides. “You’re not more careful and you’re gonna get burned.”

She reached out beyond the steamed-up glass to blindly grab the nearest towel which she used to brusquely dry her hair. With a wicked grin and while envisioning Vox’s enraged expression, Grace said, “I suppose that’s the danger in lighting up someone else’s whole world.”

With one towel wrapped around her body and secured closed with a knot between her breasts, another wound up around her head like a turban, Grace left the bathroom feeling at least marginally better than she had before the shower.

Nobody had materialized in her room. Grace exhaled and sat at the table, turning on the radio. Hysterical, staticky laughter poured from the radio’s speakers.

She pressed her lips together in a tight, agonized smile, her heart aching fiercely with longing. To be the reason for that laughter again.

“FUX News is reporting upheaval at Vee Tower,” Alastor broadcasted, “centering around a growing rift among the terrible triad of Overlords.”

A knock on her bedroom door interrupted the broadcast; Grace promptly turned off the radio and stood warily.

A couple more taps on the bedroom door followed shortly.

… Alastor?

Grace promptly rolled her eyes at herself.

First, dumbass, he’s not gonna come to your rescue—now, or ever. He probably wouldn’t have even when contractually bound to do so.

Second, he wouldn’t knock.

She approached the door, put her hand on the knob reluctantly.

But … what if …?

She eased the door open. “Oh. It’s you.”

Velvette responded to Grace’s unenthusiastic greeting with a sour smile. “Well, good morning to you, too, little bitch.”

Grace retreated to her chair, leaving the door open for Velvette.

This was rock bottom and Grace just didn’t care anymore. Hell was infinite punishment, as intended, and she knew there was no way out. 

No way out of Hell.

No way out of Here.

“What happened yesterday? Val and Vox had a fight that was nothing short of a brawl. You, uh—” Velvette cleared her throat. “You left something with Val. Figured you might want it back?”

Grace glanced up at Velvette; in her hands were the missing garments draped over something vaguely rectangular.

“They can’t stop fighting over me,” said Grace, choosing her words with great care so as to leave the origination of their beef as ambiguous as possible. Of the two male Vee Overlords, Grace assumed Velvette favored Valentino but wasn’t confident enough to assign blame to whichever Velvette liked or trusted less. “Next thing I know, I’m … well … ever hear  the term ‘greening out?’”

Velvette handed Grace her shirt and bra. “I’m familiar with it. Someone drugged you?”

Something in Velvette’s tone indicated a disgusting lack of surprise. Almost as if she’d had some hand in it.

Grace wondered if she’d been given the ‘formula’ Velvette and Valentino had been discussing when Vox—and she—had interrupted them.

She could have been angry. The anger was well more than justified. Instead, she just shrugged, utterly defeated. “I guess that’s the only thing I’m good for anymore.”

“Plump back up,” said Velvette, “and I’ll find a place for you on my runway."

Grace had so many regrets that she was now more remorse than demon.

She lamented not having done more to learn how to wield Alastor’s power when she had it.

She lamented no longer having access to said power she never learned to wield.

It would be so much easier to prowl about Vee Tower if she could melt into the shadows lurking behind the furniture and countless televisions and cameras mounted on every wall.

But Grace was nothing if not tenacious—a trait that frustrated a great many of her friends and relatives from time to time.

The self-same trait that seemed to both enrage and enthrall a certain former lover she was trying very hard not to think about while simultaneously wishing she still leeched his powers.

Grace’s heart ached a bit and she reprimanded herself with a single, sharp thought: Fuck!

The best thing for heartache, Grace found, was to distract herself—easier said than done when sequestered alone for thirteen years in her shitty little hovel in the worst neighborhood of the bad place—but here, she had stuff to do. Floors to explore. 

She could take her mind off things by seeking ways to undermine three of the worst-ever Demon Overlords.

Prior exploration took her to the Vee Tower lobby, to the conference room she was sickeningly familiar with by now. There were floors and floors that had to have something of interest, something she could use against them. Or at the very least, against him.

Although Grace knew better than to attempt another escape, there was so much of the first floor that remained unexplored. Rather than taking the elevator down again, this time she found a stairway she was confident she could use without running into another soul.

As she descended step by step and floor after floor, she studied the stairwell. The railing, the treads, the wall. Concrete, metal. There was little reason she could imagine putting design effort into what was essentially a fire escape; nonetheless, this was shockingly plain—by Vee standards. By any standards, for that matter.

Noticeably absent: technology.

No cameras? Really?

Grace descended another floor, her thighs and ass beginning to ache from the exertion.

You seriously mean to tell me Val’s never filmed anything in here?

Over the distance of another floor’s worth of steps, Grace came up with several different scenarios that could make good use of a setting like this.

Shame he’s a piece-a-shit. I might suggest some of these.

Of course, if history served, Valentino would merely twist her ideas into something she would come to regret having initiated. Like Artificial Sintelligence. Like the recreation of her hot mic moment with Alastor.

Upon reaching the first floor, Grace sat heavily on the bottommost step, giving herself a few moments to rest her legs and catch her breath. If she survived this, if she ever returned to Alastor, if they had any positive relationship of which to speak, she might insist he chase her more. 

This being-sedentary business was bullshit. She struggled back to her feet, wishing she hadn’t given herself the opportunity to rest, and slipped through the stairwell’s exit door. It shut before she had the opportunity to find something to prop it open with, having been installed with an aggressive spring hinge that scarcely afforded Grace time to pass it without getting a body part of bit of clothing caught between it and the doorjamb.

And naturally, like any good fire door, it had no handle on the lobby-side; she would have to find a different route back to her room. 

Grace kept as close to the walls as she could despite knowing every inch of Vee Tower was surveilled. At least she felt better for trying to fly under Vox’s radar.

Big Brother is always watching.

She shuddered.

The lobby of Vee Tower had little of interest—at least superficially. Toward the back of the building, the lobby diverged into two winding hallways. She stood between them, recalling at an odd time something from sixth grade:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where—

two Voxtek employees emerged from a room with their hands full of boxes and shit!

They headed the direction opposite Grace and she decided easily which road she would take—that is, as soon as the drone-demons in blue vacated that hall.

She listened for their footfalls fade into the distance, then the squeak of another door’s hinges. The click of the door latch as it closed.

Grace bolted down the hall while she had the chance, skidding to a halt in front of the room from which those demons had emerged.

The doorhandle wouldn’t turn.

Of course it’s locked, dipshit. Something of value is clearly back there, they’ll just leave it open to whoever wants to steal stuff. In Hell. Because everyone here is so upstanding and honest and would never dream of stealing shit.

She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity.

The doorhandle didn’t have a place for a key—not as if she knew how to pick locks, anyway. There was, however, a keypad about a foot to the left of the door.

A well-used keypad with four worn-down buttons; 1, 4, 8, and 9.

Grace slowly smiled. I know this riddle.

The 1 was most faded—it would be first to be exposed to finger oils, food remnants, lord only knew what other fluids would be on a sinner’s fingertip. The 4 was least worn of the buttons, likely then the last to be used.

The space between the 8 and 9 was worn; they’re hit practically simultaneously.

With a deep breath, Grace tried her first guess: 1894. A red light just above the keypad blinked with an accompanying mewling beep. Either the keypad was battery-operated and the battery was dying—unlikely given how everything here seemed to be hard-wired—or a lot of demons tried and failed to get in.

Likely idiotic henchmen who couldn’t remember a four-digit combination.

She then tried again with her second guess.

1984 resulted in a green light and the lock on the door disengaging with a quiet click, leaving Grace wondering if the Big Brother vibes she got from Vee Tower were deliberate aesthetic choices to drive home Vox owning and running everything—down to other sinners’ thoughts and beliefs.

There’s no way any of this is deliberate, thought Grace as she let herself into the room. That would require a level of literacy I doubt Vox possesses.

Fluorescent lights automatically flickered on overhead.

Grace found herself surrounded by metal racks that stood floor-to-ceiling and that stretched on seemingly into oblivion, each stacked high and full with Voxtek branded boxes of all shapes and sizes.

It was probably reminiscent of the average mortal-realm Amazon warehouse.

Grace was overwhelmed. She stepped back to rest against the closed door behind her, taking a deep, steadying breath; panicking would help nothing. 

Having calmed herself a bit, Grace took stock of the storeroom.

Hanging on the wall to her left was a clipboard with a thick stack of papers testing the fortitude of the clip spring. Grace leaned over for a closer look.

Voxtek inventory?

Voxtex inventory.

She gasped, Voxtek inventory!, as she snatched the clipboard from the wall and scurried down one of the countless rows of boxes, hunting for a good place she could hunker down and give herself time to snoop through this list.

Once she found a good spot where she could easily manipulate some of the boxes and hide among the items—just in case more of Vox’s employees came to retrieve anything—she settled on the concrete floor and began flipping through the pages attached to the clipboard.

At the top of the list was a key that indicated items in various stages of development. Items with a green dot were to be advertised and dispersed to stores for sale. Items with a yellow dot were being beta-tested. Red-dotted items, apparently, were deemed unsafe for use and subject to alteration or disposal. Grace was stunned that Vox wouldn’t just try to sell those items regardless of their safety.

Then she questioned herself that that was even a possibility—did that make Vox less evil than she was if he hadn’t considered it but she had?

There were pages upon pages of items designated as unsafe, most of which seemed to be of a bioengineered nature.

One page was filled with the same item red-dotted again and again, and then finally given a yellow dot. And finally a green one. Some kind of mechanical shark creature with notes upon notes of problems, recommendations. Corrections.

Fucking Christ. Vox—or whoever ordered this thing be made—was quite adamant about having it done.

Following that was pages of inventory with yellow dots scattered amongst swaths of red, some items with details. Notes. Typed, or handwritten.

As Grace got deeper into the inventory list, the green dots began to appear, and with them, what seemed to be blurbs for use in potential advertisements. 

Probably the further back she went, the older the technology, the more testing and fine-tuning they received.

Soon it was mostly items with green dots and the occasional yellow.

VoxWatch. VoxGlasses. eVox, iVox.

Where’s the aVox, oVox, and uVox? Everybody Vox!

VoxBook.

Voxdots. 

Voxdots? She read the accompanying specifications:

Covertly surveil the ones you love!  

Voxdot cameras have a non-light-emitting 2 MM lens with 120-degree diagonal FOV, 30 FPS max frame rate that ensures high-precision measurement in tight spaces. Its waterproof design makes it ideal for placement inside toilet bowls, showers or any otherwise private spaces (such as intimate body parts).

Bluetooth pairs instantly to a Voxtek storage hub that can be inserted into any USB A port, enabling the user to watch the Voxdot’s feed on any television or computer!

Sound specifications:

110 Hz 270W of 3.1 channel sound creates an experience that makes the user feel like they’re really there! Hear every moan of your wife being fingered by your brother, every slap and squelch of his balls hitting her taint as they mock you mercilessly while fucking. Installing in a toilet? You won’t miss even the quietest farts!

Item # 5AR83B672, Aisle 32 bin 39

It was the sound specifications that sold Grace on pilfering this particular item, not that she wanted to hear slaps, squelches, or farts; rather, if she could find a good place to install the Voxdot in the conference room, she could listen in to each of the Vees’ meetings without risk of getting caught.

She emerged from her hiding spot among the towering boxes and slid the ones she’d moved back into their original positions before hunting for aisle 32—she’d hunkered down in aisle 5.

This is worse than the Mission Valley Ikea, oh my god! Feeling as though she’d been on borrowed time from the start, Grace speed-walked past aisle after aisle, her shins beginning to burn with the threat of splints.

She ground her teeth against the pain, ruing the day she quit playing soccer. Never had this problem back then! 

One way or another, Grace told herself—uncertain if it was a positive or negative—this would be over soon.

At long last she reached aisle 32, cursing to have to nearly run another half-marathon just to find bin 39, which had only a handful of palm-sized Voxtek blue-and-cyan boxes left in it.

Grace snatched one and reviewed the contents quickly, hoping she wouldn’t have to hunt down one of those Voxtek storage hubs. Satan had mercy on her that day and she exhaled heavily in relief; the Voxdot box indicated that a Voxtek storage hub was included. 

She finally made her way to the storeroom door, no thoughts left in her brain but prayers that she wouldn’t be caught.