Chapter Text
'New post from Alastor Altruist on EdenTube: Q&A Session #33.'
Three years.
It had been three long years since the disappearance of self-made darling Alastor Altruist, host of the #1 true crime podcast in North America, whose charming persona, mysterious past, and grotesquely (almost suspiciously?) detailed descriptions of crime scenes had won over the hearts of millions of listeners.
Three years in which VoxTekLIVE had gone from a small-time creepypasta narration channel to what one might (incorrectly) call part of SlopTube. Calling evil Mario at 3 AM, finding Freddy Fazbear in the woods at 3 AM, really just a lot of dumb shit at 3 AM (or whenever; it's not like the kids watching could tell what time it actually was.)
With Val at his side, Vincent pranked; he street-interviewed; he streamed; and, most lucratively, he sponsored. Online gambling, gamer chairs, and just last week an AI therapy chatbot that had already caused four suicides. ‘Trust me with your mental health!’
He caught plenty of shit for his content, but nobody could say he wasn't successful. Six-fucking-figures successful, thank you very much, and one of the fastest growing channels on EdenTube.
If only 1095 (and counting) days of grinding his way to the top had been enough to free Vincent from his neuroses. It had been three years since he got off the ground, but it had also been three years since anyone had heard a peep from the object of his one-sided homicidal (possibly homoerotic?) obsession.
And now the motherfucker was back.
Vincent stared at the email. His mouth had gone dry. His heart hammered in his chest, though with fear or excitement he couldn't tell.
He'd always been prone to tunnel vision, and for Alastor Altruist it became Wile E. Coyote-esque in intensity. Which was, of course, perfectly normal. So maybe you sorta rip off a guy’s style out of spite a couple (or a couple hundred) times, and maybe he pretends you don't exist even though you're kind of a huge fucking deal, and maybe he just so happens to be like, the most beautiful person you've ever seen (but obviously uses filters because no one is actually that beautiful), and then maybe gorgeous-genius-sadist-narrator-guy disappears for three years, aka 1095 days, because maybe you actually counted…
"Vin," Valentino whined. Vincent stiffened, suddenly aware of the lanky arms draped around his shoulders and the nimble fingers buttoning-down his button-up. The familiar heat of a lean body pressed against his shoulders warred for his attention against the simple single sentence on his screen.
'New post from Alastor Altruist on EdenTube: Q&A Session #33.'
"Yeah, Val? What's up?" Vin responded after an impressive 45-second delay.
"Vel's here, baby. It's movie night, remember?"
It was indeed movie night.
With great effort Vincent tore his eyes away from the email, telling himself he could privately (and pantslessly) watch Alastor Altruist's Q&A later. His basement bedroom in Val's house had lots of perks, but alone time was not one of them—not when the guy he lived with (and whose mortgage he was paying off) had been trying his absolute best to fuck him for the past two years. Even now Val nuzzled his face into the crook of Vincent's neck, smiling into the sensitive skin when he got a shudder in response. Vincent wasn’t gay, but he was tired, and more than a little pent up; eventually, he knew he would fold and let Val have his way. But not tonight. Tonight was motherfucking movie night.
They left his gooner gamer cave to head upstairs through the hippie ass beaded curtains Val used in lieu of doors, Vincent hastily rebuttoning his shirt before Vel could see what they hadn't actually been up to.
The living room was big, bigger than Valentino had been able to afford before Vincent entered the picture, and not one inch of the low-lit, smoke-hazed room was left undecorated. Pink wallpaper, posters of male models (dressed as cops or strippers, if they were dressed at all), bookshelves full of asian porn cartoons and parodies of the Kama Sutra. An L-shaped couch and an armchair took up the center, pink fur and purple leather respectively. The coffee table between them, black with a resin heart in the center, was covered in food wrappers, empty cans, and drug paraphernalia: a vaguely phallic bong, Vincent's shark pipe, some weird black powder Val insisted was 'the new thing,' and a bottle of pills which they'd drunkenly peeled the label off of. Vincent eyed them, unable to remember the contents now, then slipped them into his pocket for safekeeping before flinging himself on the couch.
"Hey Vee," Vel greeted once she was freed from Val's grasp after the man spun her into a crushing hug. "You heard the news?"
Vincent's eyes widened. "You know about Al-"
"She got banned from Instagram!" Val sang out, not even trying to act upset on her behalf. "Again!"
"Oh." What a relief; Alastor was his obsession, not anyone else's. "What'd you do this time, tell Carmine to off herself? Again?"
"No!" Vel snapped. "Well, yeah, but that's not what did me in. Turns out fake gift card giveaways are, like, a bannable offense now? Total bullshit! Where the fuck am I meant to advertise my clothes now, Facebook? As if!"
"You could do some hot tub stuff on Vinny's streams in, like, a custom bikini!" Val suggested as he flopped onto the couch, slinging his legs into Vincent's lap.
"Oh, sure," Vel said, fumbling for the TV remote as she folded herself into her designated armchair. "Then when people look me up on Insta- er, Facebook, they'll find me pissing about half-naked in a tub with Mr. Canceled!"
"I'm not canceled!" Vincent, who was indeed canceled, protested. Last time it'd been for viewbotting, but this time someone had dug up some drunken slur usage from a few years back. If Vel was allowed to say it, why wasn't he? Freedom of speech was well and truly dead. "Why would we put your name on it anyways? All we'd need is your face- actually, don't answer that, I don't care. I don't do hot tub streams."
Val rolled his eyes. "But you should! That or camming, papi, your pretty face is wasted doing stupid scary spaghetti videos! People would pay good money to see you bend over. You should see what Angel's making."
Vincent turned his head to hide the pink dusting his cheeks. "You should see what I make while keeping my clothes on. Save your sugar baby bullshit for twinks with daddy issues."
Both Vees gave him a knowing look.
"Okay, fuck this! Fuck you both, I'm going out since you guys wanna turn movie night into pissing me the fuck off night," he erupted, biting back a snarl as they burst into laughter. He threw Val's legs off of him and headed for the door, kicking on a pair of converse that were definitely not appropriate for mid-winter in Bumfuck, Maryland.
"Baby!" Val whined. "It's movie night, you can't just leave!"
Vel agreed with a nod, though she didn't look up from her phone.
"Quit your bitching, I'll be back! I'm just gonna run to the store real quick. We're out of milk." They were indeed out of milk, and also everything else. The fridge was nothing more than alcohol storage to a trio who subsisted entirely on fast food deliveries and, occasionally, some gross Mexican shit Val's grandma dropped off. It'd be more believable to tell them he was getting the nuclear launch codes than fucking milk. Whatever.
Clad in only a VoxTek-brand hoodie (free advertising!) and jeans, Vincent stepped out into Maryland winter and immediately regretted it when the stiff breeze blew right through him. Too late to go back now; he'd happily risk hypothermia to keep his dignity intact. Pocketing his hands, he began walking. His flat feet hit the sidewalk in a droning rhythm as he passed from streetlight to streetlight, and his mind began to wander.
Val was a thorn in his side that grew more annoying with each passing day.
Sometimes, when the guy really pissed him off with his sexual advances, Vincent imagined sneaking up into his room while he slept and killing him. Surprise surprise, known maniac and accidental corpse-filmer Vincent Whittman suffered from a nasty case of homicidal ideation! The idea was to take one of his stupid fluffy pillows and hold it over his stupid, pretty face until he smothered to death; Vin had even written about it, posts buried deep in a forum nobody would ever read. Lately though, he'd been pondering plain old bare-handed strangulation. It'd be more fun to watch the light leave his eyes, Vin thought, and hotter too.
Two years ago he'd have balked at the idea of finding anything about another man hot, even in a murder-y way, but things were murkier now. Blame his old man for being a shitty role model or blame Valentino for tempting him, it made no difference. If the sight of a six-foot-four toned Latino in booty shorts and a crop top made his pants a little tighter, well, what the fuck ever. It was 2026, baby. Everyone was fluid now.
The attraction wasn't why Vincent hadn't murdered Valentino. He actually had no idea why he hadn't, besides the fact that it would fuck his entire life up if he killed his friend and co-creator. Maybe he was just afraid that if he failed, Val would make him regret it. He'd roofied ol' Vinny once, popped a concoction in his open beer can while he was in the shitter and let him sleep half of it off on the couch. Then, all smiles and sweet tones, he'd shaken him awake to let him know what he could've done if he weren’t such a sweetheart.
Fucking lunatic.
Or maybe it was because Val had been the one to find Vincent on the bathroom floor last week, convulsing and choking on his own pill-filled vomit. Vincent suspected the next attempt on his own life would be a resounding success should Val not be around to intervene; in theory that was a plus, because why would he attempt suicide if not to actually die? Amystery for the ages, that, but Vincent didn't care to solve it. Picking his own brain was gay and also a waste of time. He was a go-getter, not a ponderer; he got shit done.
Except for killing himself, apparently.
As he walked, he cyberstalked. Though Vincent hadn't had time to watch Alastor's video yet, his top asskisser moderator Ethan had already pored over it and provided a summary.
The video was centered around Alastor's unplanned three-year hiatus, which he explained away with the classic 'family emergency' excuse. He'd clearly moved; Alastor's Q&A sessions were the only videos in which he showed his face, always in front of a green-screened fireplace. Now, however, he framed by a nondescript living room, with all the photos turned around and the curtains drawn… except he'd missed a sliver. The teeniest hint of foliage peeked in from that glorious mistake, and Ethan insisted that it was a paw-paw tree. That narrowed Alastor’s location down a lot, and though he knew it was unlikely, Vin couldn't help his excitement at the idea that Alastor might be in the same state as him right now. Close enough to find. Close enough to fucking destroy for ignoring him.
He told Ethan to get back to work, then decided to actually walk to the store and get some milk. Might as well accomplish something if he was gonna freeze his ass off out of spite.
A bell jingled as Vincent pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the ever-reliable nearest 7-Eleven. To the dairy section he went, mismatched eyes scanning the selection. Almond milk, soy milk, pea milk- what the fuck was pea milk? Surely there was a legal definition of milk that these fucking vegan liberals were stomping all over with pea milk. Grumbling, he yanked open the fridge door and grabbed a normal carton of normal milk for normal people. He also grabbed a bag of chips and some gummies; munchies tended to turn into actual fights between the Vees when there was nothing to snack on, especially when his counterparts were 'on diets' (read: starving themselves) again. Vin deposited his load on the counter to be scanned and checked his phone; no updates from Ethan. Ten whole minutes and nothing? Unbelievable. He'd get more mileage out of hiring a literal pile of shit than that spineless, simpering fag.
The bell jingled again, signaling another customer entering the store.
Alastor motherfucking Altruist stepped inside.
The world, which did in fact revolve around Vincent, stopped turning.
His phone fell from shock-slackened hands, the noise of it hitting the floor drawing the attention of the one person whose attention Vincent had never once been able to draw. Dark eyes swept over him, sparking with something—recognition? Disgust? Attraction? He'd take anything, really.
Then, without a word or even a nod of acknowledgement, Alastor simply walked right past him and disappeared down the OTC aisle. His cane clicked in time with his prim footsteps on the tile floor. Vincent hadn't known he used a cane.
"Sir?"
The face in his videos wasn't filtered. He was just as handsome in real life as he was on screen.
"...uh, dude?"
Alastor Altruist was fucking here, in the same town as Vincent, in the same store as Vincent. Close enough to destroy.
"Yo, man, are you-"
"What the fuck do you want?!" Vincent roared at the cashier.
The man's pimply face, barely visible past sheets of greasy blue hair, screwed up into an indignant scowl. "Cash or card?"
"...card," Vincent replied after a beat, crouching to pick up his phone. As he did so, the pills in his pocket rattled. Shaking the bottle in his greasy ass face when the cashier gave him a suspicious look, Vincent spouted off a quick lie: "I'm not stealing, asshole, they're for my fibromyalgia." (He was pretty sure they were actually multivitamins. That, or enough sleeping pills to euthanize a horse. One of these days something would set him off badly enough to find out, he supposed.)
"My bad, man," the guy—Terry, read his nametag—mumbled. An ugly name for an ugly fuck. Vincent paid, grabbed his shit, made a plan, and stepped back out into the cold.
Back in high school he and his former pal Troy had tried robbing this place, decked out cheap Halloween masks and cluelessly vlogging themselves committing a crime. When Troy threw himself into the doors to bust them open like an action movie hero, he'd dislocated his shoulder. Watching him hit the ground wailing was still one of the funniest things Vincent had ever seen, and now the doors were once again doing him a solid. Their status as non-automatic and non-glass meant he could linger just outside without his target knowing he was lying in wait. Alastor, here, in the flesh, in the warm, coffee-toned flesh- okay, no. No gay shit, he told himself sternly. So what if you jack it to pics of him on the reg, that means nothing! This is real life! It's time to finally put that smug prick in his place, which is beneath me! Non-sexually! Probably!
The doors opened. Shifting into entertainment mode, Vincent cocked his hip and deployed his deepest, richest baritone; "Alastor! What a coincidence meeting you here! Don't worry, I'm happy to take time out of my very busy day to talk to you- oh."
It was just Melissa, carrying a bag of cleaning supplies. He dropped the act, scowling and flipping her off…
…from a safe distance, because she’d been getting jacked recently, much to Vel’s delight. Vincent would never understand lesbians. The whole point of a woman was to be soft; if you wanted buff, why not go for a man instead?
She flipped him off in return and wordlessly strode away, and Vincent ground his teeth as he watched her disappear into the snowy evening. He and Melissa had about as cordial a relationship as anyone could have with a person they'd known since kindergarten, but he was beyond annoyed to have wasted such a top-tier delivery on such a dumb bitch. He sneered after her as she-
Wait.
The doors hadn't closed after her.
By the time he looked, they had—but there'd been a delay. Vincent had lived in this town all his life, had gone to this same store all his life, had even tried to fucking rob it; he knew how long it took the doors to close just as well as he knew his own face in the mirror. Someone had come out after Melissa while he watched her stomp away in her big ugly lesbian boots.
A frantic look around turned up nothing but snow, sidewalk, and a darkening sky as dusk set in. Panicking, Vincent stormed back into the store and shoved a couple out of his way as he darted up and down each aisle. No Alastor, not in OTC or drinks or candy or anywhere! Terry glared at him as he left as abruptly as he'd re-entered, but Vincent didn't notice. He'd lost him! Alastor Altruist, not ten feet away, and he'd fucking lost him!
Two hours later, a shivering, miserable Vincent staggered into Val's living room. He'd looped increasingly wide circles around the 7-Eleven trying to track Alastor down, or at least find a fucking footprint, a stray hair, anything... but all he got for his effort was a runny nose, a red face, and the knowledge that milk could freeze.
"You look like a bloody tomato!" Vel cackled from her chair, unsubtly snapping a few photos of his misery.
"Oh yeah, laugh it up! Where were you planning on posting those, y'know, since you're fucking banned? Just for that, I'm not helping you reverse it." Vincent deposited the milk and grabbed a can of beer from the fridge. He cracked it open, chugged it in one go, then belched so hard he nearly threw up onto the counter.
"Oh nooo," she gasped mockingly. "I'll just have to ask like, literally anyone else!"
"Oh yeah? Hey Val, you wanna help her out?"
Valentino stopped giggling to think, brow furrowing. "Uhm... you, like, appeal it, right?"
Vel groaned. "You think I'd start bitching to you morons before trying to fucking appeal it? Honestly, Val!"
"Wait, so you're perma-banned then?"
"Yes, you twat!"
Val blinked. "Well then how am I supposed to fix it? It's perma, not temp? Duh!"
Vel threw her phone at his head. He ducked it with practiced ease, and Vel had already pulled out a second one and fired off a series of texts before the first even hit the floor. Vincent, meanwhile, went for a second beer but ended up taking the whole six-pack instead. He dumped the chips and candy into Vel's lap as he passed her on the way to his basement dwelling. "Good luck," he sang out as she grumbled.
"These aren't even the good crisps," Vel complained, but blessedly she opened the bag and popped a few into her mouth anyways.
"Chips," Vin corrected. "It's been four years, Vel, time to start speaking American instead of Pip Pip Cheerio before I send your ass back to fucking Crumpetland."
Through a mouthful of chips, Vel scoffed. “Just try it, see if I don't poke your bloody eyes out! Maybe then you’ll regrow a matching set!”
Vincent spluttered. “You’re like, three feet tall! You can’t even reach my eyes!”
“I’ll put on cleats and climb, you knob!”
“Nuh-uh. Plus!” He pointed at her threateningly, “The heterochromia brings in views!”
“Only thing hetero about you,” Vel muttered. “Val! Back me up, babe.”
Val had more important things on his mind; namely the blunt he was lighting, despite Vincent asking him approximately eight thousand times to not do that shit indoors. He looked up just as Vincent slipped through the bead curtain. "Vin!” he wailed, “You can't double-ditch movie night!"
Vin double-ditched the shit out of movie night, nearly falling down the stairs as his cold-numbed legs buckled beneath him. He had more important things to do tonight than watch shitty romcoms and listen to the Vees bitch about how much their newest sugar babies sucked (and not in the good way.)
The rage-fuck disappointment of losing Alastor was fading, leaving behind only the pleasant buzz of alcohol and the absolute ecstatic high of seeing his true-and-honest face. Alastor was nearby. Alastor was in his turf. And Alastor had snuck out behind him! Alastor had seen him in the doorway, calculated what to do about it, and decided to give him a wide berth, like he was fucking scared or something! What a stupid, quivering pussy!
Galvanized by his self-congratulatory delusions, Vincent got to work doing what he did best: delegating tasks. Editors, writers, moderators, sponsors, botfarms, all wrangled perfectly into place with a deft hand. Such was the mighty power of the leader of the VoxTekLIVE empire…
…or at least, that's what he meant to do when he collapsed into his chair and cracked open a second beer. Instead, he marathoned old Alastor Altruist videos and picked at his nails until his keyboard was so gunked up with blood (old and new) that he had to clean it out with compressed air. Fucking annoying. Sometimes he dreamed of having big metal claws that could leave nasty marks on whoever fucked with him. How easy it would be to cut into flesh, rend and tear, or to dig those very claws into his own arms and rip and rip and rip until there was so much blood nobody could do anything about it...
Alastor's five-years-ago voice droned on, recounting in graphic detail the brutal murder of an entire family. Speaking of fucking with him.
Whether or not Alastor had actually fucked with him by escaping the 7-Eleven was up for debate, but there was much more to be mad about than just a failed chance encounter. The infamous Vox vs Alastor masterpost hosted on X, The Everything App was over fifty Xeets long by now, but it was entirely, nauseatingly one-sided. They ran in the same circles, their content frequently overlapped, hell, Vin had gone out of his way to rip Alastor off multiple times in a bid to gain views (and his ire). But that podcasting twink (a confirmed twink now that he'd seen him!) didn't even know Vin was alive, let alone register him as the serious threat that he was.
Vincent talked shit about him endlessly on stream, but whenever Alastor was asked about VoxTekLIVE he'd move on without comment. So what if the VoxTek brand was a little more bombastic, a little less sophisticated? Alastor sounded like he was creaming his pants every time he described some guy getting his skin flayed or a girl hacked to pieces in the woods, yet Vincent was the one catching flack for 'being disrespectful' all because he filmed a corpse or two.
Three, actually. But he'd passed the third one off as asleep, so it didn't count.
The cold shoulder treatment from a loser like Alastor Altruist shouldn't have bothered Vincent as much as it did. He had twice the subs Alastor did and was rolling in dough from ad revenue... or at least he had been, until a moderation update dropped last week:
'We at Morningstar Enterprises support the marginalized communities speaking out against inappropriate and harmful content on EdenTube and Twitch. We are committed to making our platforms a safe space for viewers of all ages, ethnicities, religions, and orientations.'
Only a week after the very public divorce of Louis and Lilith Morningstar, suddenly EdenTube's parent company decided it cared about the content it was hosting. Years of allowing gore and titty streamers and suicide-inducing call out posts, years of ignoring all the AI-generated Elsa Spiderman Pregnant Explosion videos, and now they were finally cracking down? Total bullshit! Vincent wanted to drive out to Cleveland (what self-respecting CEO lives in Cleveland, by the way?) and put Louis Morningstar's head through a fucking wall.
"Go woke, go broke!" He'd cheerfully told his chat when the update first dropped, sure it would be reverted within a week. But instead it was Vincent going broke via mass demonetization; he still had sponsors, sure, but they were unreliable and pulling out by the dozens as the site's content shifted. Still, it would be alright in the end. The pendulum always swung back. That, or he'd have to move to Punch where all the IRL degenerates and gambling addicts dwelled. It mattered not. Vincent always came out on top, no matter what the world threw at him.
Several hours after his run-in with his top nemesis and subsequent rewatch marathon, he was tipsy, streaming to his top supporters, and bitching about Alastor at 2 in the morning. As usual.
Ethanator99: You could always leak his personal details, bossman! That'd show him not to mess with the Megalodon of EdenTube ;-)
Vincent glanced at his chat from where he'd been throwing darts at a printout of Alastor's face. The printout had been a one-off joke to celebrate the six-month anniversary of the man's disappearance, but then he just... never took it down. Now it was basically a wall-mounted stress ball.
"Whaaat? Come on, you guys know I'd never tip the cow like that!" Vincent deflected with a forced laugh, pulling out his phone to text Ethan to shut the fuck up before someone else beat them to doxxing Alastor. He opened their texts only to have his retinas seared by all the nudes Ethan had sent him over the years. The guy wasn't bad to look at, but Vinny would never get involved with a brown-noser, let alone a brown-nosing man. If he tugged himself off to the pics periodically, so what? There was just something about an image taken specifically for him that really got his jollies ranching. Was that gay? No, he decided. Ethan wasn't important enough to count.
Before he could tell the guy to shut his goddamn mouth, Ethan sent a text. Blessedly, it was not a nude.
Asskisser: 5120 Dogbane Lane. Two storeys, nice place. Idk if he's renting or what but the property is owned by Roseanne Donner
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Vincent took it all back; Ethan was actually the coolest guy to ever live. The most beautiful, precious, delightful little creature on God's green earth.
Vin: lmao no fucking way
Vin: roseanne donner as in the carovir bitch?
It was impossible to be a content creator and not know who Roseanne Motherfucking Donner was. She headed the massive media conglomerate Carovir, who had thousands of EdenTubers signed, plus dozens of podcasts, webshows, and edutainment snoozefests to pad out their profits. They'd even dipped a toe into cable programs for the geriatrics. He'd refused to sign with them when they reached out, or with anybody for that matter; nobody was leeching off Vincent's hard-earned money (except for Val and Vel.) But if Ethan was right and Alastor was indeed renting from, or even staying with Roseanne, it meant Mr. Altruist wasn't quite the self-made legend everyone thought he was.
Asskisser: The one and only. Apparently it's her winter home
Vin: ur the fucking best dude
Vin: im sor ry i punched u last edencon dude fr u are the fucking best ur my favorite mod
Vin: ik i said hansen was but i was just lying to keep him loyal. u know how he gets
Asskisser: Thank you boss!
Asskisser: Did you see my time off request btw
"Alright, guys, that’s it for tonight!" Vincent grinned into his camera as he bid his viewers farewell, drool pooling in his mouth as his excitement grew. "I should have some very interesting news for you all soon, so stay tuned."
With the stream over and Ethan left on read, Vin got to work readying himself. Item after item was chucked onto his bed: black shirt, black pants, a hunting knife, a crowbar, some miscellaneous rope, and a dumbbell thrown in for good measure. Finally, he pulled the pièce de résistance from his closet; an unopened chloroform kit from Amazon. He’d never chloroformed a bitch before and had already thrown out the instruction manual, but how hard could it be? Shit, maybe he should've tested it out on Val first. Fucker would probably be into it.
The clothes were donned, and the items were bagged. God, he looked hot in all black... but he looked less hot struggling to carry the duffel bag. Unfortunately, the dumbbell had to go. Vincent lamented no longer being able to cave Alastor's skull in with it if everything went ass-up.
At 2:30 AM, after a final beer for courage, Vincent grabbed his car keys and headed out.
Across town, past the welfare suburbs where parents smoked on the porch while their kids got started on their criminal records early, lay Dogbane Lane—a shining oasis of new money on the outskirts of the post-industrial soul-sucked shithole Vincent called home. The upper crust all clustered here, tucked away in their widely spaced mcmansions and hedge-trimmed lawns. Not one cent of old money to be seen; no one with any sense willingly stayed in this town except for him and, somehow, Roseanne fucking Donner.
Dogbane Lane was blessedly plowed and salted (unlike the rest of town), so Vincent could cruise comfortably in his beloved custom-wrapped cyan-and-red 2025 Mazda® MX-5® and stick his head out the window to look for the house. Each mcmansion he passed was a new monstrosity; asymmetrical doors, porthole windows out the ass, chimneys that looked to have been designed by fucking aliens, and so, so much beige.
The Donner residence, situated at the very end of the very long cul-de-sac, was a pleasant surprise; a two-storey brick affair, as tasteful as it was unassuming. The only hint of obscene wealth was the sheer size of the property—the house was so far back from the street and so obscured by perfectly trimmed trees and hedges that Vincent had to snap a picture on his phone and zoom in on it just to make out the house number. 5120 Dogbane Lane, in custom-cut gothic lettering.
Bingo.
Parking on the lane was a no-go; his beloved custom-wrapped cyan-and-red 2025 Mazda® MX-5® looked awesome, but it didn't exactly blend in. It was left to wait obediently for him in a Whole Foods parking lot two blocks away while Vincent skulked back to the house on foot, starting to regret his sexy black outfit now that he stood out like a sore thumb against the snow. At least it was dark out.
Blinking away afterimages from the annoyingly bright porch lights, Vincent returned to 5120. It was suburban as fuck, but clean and well-kept in an expensive sort of way. Yes, Vincent could see a down-to-earth sort like Rosanne Donner spending her winters here, larping as a regular rich person instead of the obscene one-percenter she truly was. The question was, why would Alastor stay here? Vincent was excited to find out. Once the bastard was chained up in his basement, he'd ask him all about it.
It would be unwise to approach directly, he decided. Instead, Vin backtracked and crept up the nearest neighbour's long ass driveway. After a furtive look to be sure the lights in the house were out, he cut through their mini-golf-course-ass backyard; from there, it was easy to toss his duffel bag over and hop the wooden fence between houses.
Vincent dropped down onto 5120 Dogbane Lane.
If the front lawn was huge, Roseanne's backyard was practically a fucking nature reserve. The fence he'd just hopped spanned the massive perimeter, bowing under the weight of creeping vines and hanging branches where the manicured lane ended and the Blair Witch style woods began. Bootprints crisscrossed the snow, some weirdly small (a kid?), weaving a footpath between perfectly-placed spruce trees and- double bingo! Paw-paw trees in a symmetrical copse, leading to a snowed-in greenhouse and a bright red back door that practically begged to be kicked down. But the house did not hold Vincent's attention for long.
Faint music reached his ears, almost lost amidst the perpetual moaning of creaking trees and a howling wind that hadn't existed a second ago. The sound was coming from past the fence, where Vin noticed another footpath had been trekked by what looked like… dress shoes? It was that path he took, hopping over a latched gate and following the music into the woods. The canopy soon blocked out the moon, forcing him to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dark before continuing. The wind, which should've been dampened by the trees, only grew colder and louder the further he ventured. Snow mixed with gross black mud that sucked at his boots with each step. The feeling of being watched crawled up his spine, but every frantic look behind him turned up nothing but endless woods.
Finally, just as Vincent was considering turning back, soft golden light filtered in from between twisted black trees. He squeezed past them to find a small wooden shed, candlelight flickering from a single frosted-over window. The music was still quiet, so quiet that Vincent wondered how he'd even heard it from so far away. Thank you, haunted ass logic-defying woods.
As he approached he heard an odd sound; krsh-krsh-krsh, then thud. A saw? Woodwork at three in the morning was insane, even by Vin's standards.
No matter. Alastor—assuming it was him in there and Vincent wasn't about to waste some rando—could catch up on his sleep when he was taken captive.
Vin dropped his duffel bag in the snow and, with his trusty Amazon Basics hunting knife held behind his back, slammed the shed door open.
A hammer thrown straight at his head nearly removed him from this mortal coil. He ducked it on instinct alone, feeling like James fucking Bond as he straightened up with a cool (manic and slightly slobbery) grin.
Alastor Altruist, wearing a butcher apron and covered head to toe in blood, was staring at him with wild eyes. His cane leaned against the far wall, and he'd just thrown (and missed with) his only weapon. All the man had left in arm's reach was an ancient-looking radio and the hacksaw he'd been using, which would take time to unbury from what looked like a human leg laid out on a workbench. And also the rest of a human. A very dead human.
"Fancy meeting you here," Vin greeted, and leapt at Alastor with knife brandished.
The fucker was nimble for a cripple; he backstepped with ease, and then Vincent was back-down on the ground being straddled by his arch nemesis. He realized belatedly that he'd slipped on a puddle of blood. Where was all that blood coming from? Oh, right, the human leg. The human leg that Alastor had been sawing into. Of course.
Actually, on second thought, that little plot twist merited consideration. Could Vincent, a murder virgin, out-kill a possible skilled killer?
"Hey, hey, hey," he wheedled as Alastor tried to wrestle the knife away from him. The fucker made little progress; his hands were smaller, grip slippery from the blood, so Vin clung on with relative ease. Alastor's perpetually sleepy eyes had gone wide with rage, irises a deep brown, like... wood, or something. Vincent wasn't exactly feeling poetic right now. He was at half chub though, which might've been an interesting insight on his own psyche if he wasn't about to fucking die. "There's no need for this, Alastor! We can work something out!"
"Really?" Alastor drawled, still scrabbling for the knife. "So this weapon of yours must be decorative, then. Shall we talk it out over brunch?"
"I know you're being sarcastic, but we, uh, we could. We could do that." Vincent ran his tongue over his teeth even as he strengthened his grip on the hilt. "My treat."
"I'd imagine."
Alastor seemed unethused by the offer, so cold for a guy literally sitting in his fucking lap right now. Vincent grinned anyways; he still had the knife, which was probably where the nerve to mouth off was coming from… or maybe it was just because Alastor Altruist was here, pinning him to the floor, furious and frazzled and so different from the composed persona he showed in videos, something only Vincent got to see-
Alastor finally noticed the tent in his pants, an impressive delay considering he'd been sitting on it the entire time. He was so quick to leap away in disgust you'd think Vincent had spit into his mouth, which… not a bad idea, actually. Maybe next time, if he didn't die here. Wait, next time?
"You're as vile as your videos would suggest," Alastor snarled, backing away.
Vincent planted a hand on the blood-soaked workbench and got to his feet, too high on adrenaline to care about looking gay. "So you have seen my videos! I fucking knew you were lying when you said you'd never heard of me!"
"No, I've never seen them."
Was this that gaslighting thing Val kept accusing Vincent of? "What? You just said-"
"I don't recall saying anything."
"Well, you did!"
"Mm," Alastor thought. His back hit the wall. "No, I don't think that's true."
Vincent advanced, all smiles. "Fine, forget it! Y'know, I've dreamed of finding you for years," he breathed out, drooling. "Of hurting you. Of killing you. Stuck-up, arrogant fucking prick. You're just begging to be put in your place!"
Alastor's face darkened with each word—Vincent had never seen anyone look so downright malevolent before, like a devil had crawled out of Hell itself to stare him down. It was not helping his downstairs situation. He didn't know if he wanted to kill the guy or kiss him anymore, then remembered that he was supposed to be kidnapping him instead.
Fuck it, he'd already lost the element of surprise. Might as well commit to the grandest finale of all: murder.
His knife carved an arc through the air, aiming for Alastor's chest. At the same time Alastor grabbed his cane, which he'd been backing towards the whole time, and cracked Vincent across the face with it. They both recoiled; Vincent's glasses clattered to the floor, and Alastor grabbed at a shallow cut just above his breastbone.
"Fuck you," Vincent spat, disappointed that neither of them were dead.
"In your dreams, apparently," Alastor taunted.
Before he could retort, the shed door slammed open and startled them both half to death. A scandalized gasp rang through the air. "Oh Alastor, if you'd told me you had company I would've cleaned myself up a little!"
Vincent stooped to grab his glasses, seeing as Alastor had gone deer in headlights as soon as he heard the voice. But he didn't need his eyes to know who'd interrupted them; he'd heard that chipper inflection a thousand times before, preambling every Carovir promotional with her usual greeting.
Roseanne Donner strode into the shed, clad in a rust-coloured pantsuit that had started life as off-white. She was just as coated in carnage as Alastor, though hers had dried into flakes and clumps of gore. The most ridiculous hat he'd ever seen was perched atop her head, piled high with feathers and roses and a few bird skulls; that, plus her towering height, meant she'd had to duck just to fit through the doorway.
"Good evening, ma'am," Vincent greeted her with his best showman's grin. He wasn't sure how to feel; disappointed at the interruption, sure, and weirdly still a little horny? But even a rugged solo act like himself couldn't help being excited to meet the Roseanne Donner face to face. So many items off the ol' checklist tonight, he really might end up dying happy.
"Good evening, Vincent," Roseanne replied with an unnaturally wide grin. Her eyes were so dark they were almost inhuman, and her teeth were oddly narrow. "I can't say I'm thrilled by your little trespassin' stunt, but I am feeling generous! Care for a little late night chat around the fireplace? It's much nicer inside than in this dingy old shed, I swear!"
She was laying out what might've been the most obvious trap in human history, but who was Vincent to deny her the pleasure? He'd kill her if it came to that, or die trying. Same difference. A final glance back at Alastor made up his mind; the man looked furious beyond description, hands balled into fists at his sides and lips pulled back into a hateful sneer. His teeth were sharp, Vin noted, just like his own. We're a matching set.
"Sure," he agreed with a smile, and Roseanne smiled right back.