The Urge To Write An Angst Fic About Vox That Completely Others Him From Most Of Hell Because He's A

The urge to write an angst fic about Vox that completely others him from most of hell because he's a machine, and machines become obsolete one way or the other, and someday he'll be a broken flat box in a junkyard that no one looks twice at. No one will look at it and think "there was a person in there. There was a soul that occupied that screen" Because there isn't a soul there. It's just parts. Broken thing of the past that used to shine and glitch and scream and fight desperately to stay important. But it's a box. It's been taken apart by the hungry scavengers looking for anything valuable to sell.

Was he killed by a vengeful overloard or was he left in the rain too long? Did he fight to his last breath or get a little bug in his system? Did his death have meaning or was he a slave to the wires that run through his arms like veins? Does it even matter now, when he's a broken flat box in a junkyard? Does anyone remember?

It's 1am and I need answers