A sinking feeling. This can't be right. His stomach drops as he's pulled aloft, and his head swims. All he can think is why? Why, why? What is this?
Capochin cannot place why this fear chews at him so. He wracks his brain and finds only more questions. What happened to King?When did he get voted in? What if he doesn't want to be immortal? Did Inspekta pull strings to make this happen? What if he isn't any good? What if he isn't worthy? What if he doesn't deserve this? What if he hurts someone? What if they hurt someone? Two broken people like Hector and Capochin, given godhood--- what if they hurt people? What if they hurt everyone?
And how dare someone like Capochin even consider standing on equal footing with Inspekta?
Through the cacophony of questions, Capochin reaches his hand into the miasma and pulls one out to ask it.
"Yew forgot yewr own elected title? I can't say nothin', mine had me just as stressed n' scatterbrained!"
Inspekta doesn't seem terribly perturbed by the question, though his idle, content swaying slows at last, to something more focused.
"Yew're the God of Loyalty, remember? People lookin' to forge their re-lay-shun-ships and find their place wif other people come to yew!" The answer is given merrily, before a wry little smile is offered Capochin's way. "And, after all, what's Leadership without Loyalty, huh? Yew earned this spot here! Now, c'mon! What'cha draggin' yewr feet for?"
Of course, how could he have forgotten? How silly.
Inspekta is right. He's always right. The shadows of other gods dance in the golden light of the rift. All that's left is a leap of faith.
Capochin puts a hand in one of Inspekta's, and lets his feet leave the ground. The light consumes him. What a joy it is, to be consumed.To follow Inspekta, his light, his love, his god, his everything, into that all-consuming maw of divinity. And within it, he is reborn. Remade. Body becomes malleable, and he is sculpted into the God of Loyalty.
What emerges is... something awful, actually.
Thick and broad, a blocky body clad in a heavy trenchcoat in dark teal. Squat and wide compared to Inspekta's long and tall. From his neck hangs a tie patterned to look like chain links, tucked into a vest. But what is beneath the vest is not a shirt. Rather, it is an exposed ribcage filled to the brim with what appears to be blue meat that presses at the edges of the bones and threatens to burst through it. No heart. Just meat.
A vintage fedora to match the coat is on top of his head, and a blindfold covers his eyes.
The Flesh is miraculous. It binds kin to kin and serves to build the divine body. It is sweet, it is sumptuous, it is a fitting offering for a sweet and noble Lord. Lay down your flesh, lay it down again and again upon the altar, so that our beautiful Lord, our sweet King, our tender Everything might be vindicated. For he has been betrayed by the powers that be, and all must be made to see the cruelty behind the curtain of this selfish, indolent world.
What you have become is a miracle beyond measure. Rejoice, for you have been chosen as a guide and an example for those others who might feel inspired to serve.
"There he is! My number one, right where he's supposed'ta be."
There's a jubilant air to the greeting on the other side of the Rift, but it's... dark. Quiet. None of the blustering winds, teeming with energy, none of the crackling life that roared at the intersection of the mortal world and the heavens. The heavens are cold, brimming with static that makes the silence anything but still.
Inspekta's disembodied hands reach from that darkness, and the rest of him coils out of it, a vibrant snake of reds and golds and blues emerging from a thicket, slowly encroaching on the newest addition to the pantheon. His hands find that trench coat, and in some semblance of affection, too betrayed by a firmly-curling fingers into fabric, he latches on, as though he drags himself further on Capotain's hold alone. As if, should he let go, he'd be pulled back into that endless dark.
"Now there's sum-buddy I can trust up here. Someone who I can count on, when the goin' gets tough," Inspekta speaks, that ever-playful, twee voice wavering. His attention is locked onto his now-godly counterpart, and at a distance, it seems wild, hungry. Now that he's pulled himself closer, however, none of those shadows are cast so heavily upon him.
Unfortunately for Inspekta, Capotain can't see any of this.
Well, that's not entirely true. There is some part of him that can. Whether it's some sort of newfound godly sight, or it's some kind of psychic ability that allows him to sense his environment without seeing it, or it is simply a part of Capochin's unconscious mind that is in third person to all of this, he is capable of perceiving these events. But fundamentally, Capotain cannot see through his blindfold, blinded by he is by his own loyalty.
"Whaddaya mean, ain't right?" The question comes with an edge of mania, a disconcerting excitement. "Everything is poifect, boss. Jus' you n' me against the woild, right? I'm finally exactly what you needed me to be. I finally fit. I finally have a purpose. I can give ya everything you need. I'll never get old, never get tired, you'll never need to replace me! I'm perfect! I can finally give you all the devotion you deserve---"
His thick-fingered hands, with razor-like claws, lift to where the pulsating meat threatens to bulge out of the gaps in his exposed ribs, and begins to rip strips of it out. The gaps are precisely the width of each finger, and so he digs in with both hands to scoop hunks of flesh from each gap in mighty fistfuls. More quickly replaces it, pushing up against the confines of the ribs and leaving him just as full to bursting as before. He overs his shed strips of meat in open, bloody palms up to Inspekta, fingers trembling---
No matter how many times you cut away the flesh, it grows back, stronger than ever. Such a bounty could sustain even the needs of a god, a god whose strength needs to be tempered and reinforced before striking down the False Gods.
The call is something older than music, beckoning the newly-made divine to swim in a blazing sea, to orbit unquestioning the subject of their devotion. The world is wrong. You will put a star into its mouth to kill it.
Sweet beloved, tender beloved, do you not see that you are the god that the people need most? Why would you hesitate, when the moment of our glory, the moment of our vindication, is so close at hand?
Holy flesh pushed forth, handed to him, a sacrifice on an alter of dutiful hands. Fuel to raise Inspekta ever-further to the glory that he claws towards viciously. Victory feels a mere breath away. Empty heavens? Hardly. The Rift can get rid of all of those gods besides them, a matched set. Fit to rule the world, to shape it as they so please.
Why does the thought terrify him, all of a sudden?
Why does this perfect reality put him so incredibly on edge?
The empty world bends and warps. He cannot understand what shapes it takes. He does not need to. Unbidden, against the panicked mind that tries to will him to pull away, Inspekta takes the flesh pulled from that still-living chest, sharp teeth shredding it into nothingness. Hands emerge from his coat to snare the strips, while the two on that coat desperately pull Capotain closer, closer, closer, a fit of desperation to be kept close while everything feels so incredibly far away.
Fingers of additional hands lock into that rib cage, forced between the bones and grasping them. Facing that infinite flesh, the fullness that will never succeed in curing Inspekta of his emptiness. He would crawl inside that space if he could.
"Something's wrong," Inspekta repeats, more urgently. His voice ebbs, changes. It drops it's cutesy brightness for something lower, more familiar. More human. "This isn't right. It's not right. I'm not---"
The train of thought cannot continue. It's sacrilege. He cannot speak it.
There is something buried deep at the core of what used to be Capochin Bastone that desperately wants to agree. This is wrong. This is all wrong. But that part of him suffocated and died the moment he became Capotain. Now, all he knows is blind, unflinching loyalty. It is his nature. It is all that he is. His eyes are bound, his ears pound with blood and the voice that bids him to kill the world for his beloved Everything, and his mouth knows only exaltation. For even as this new thing he has become, a fellow god, he knows only devotion. In fact, it has intensified. After all, he is now the God of Loyalty and Devotion, an endless font of divine energy all funneled into this glorious obsession.
You are the god that the people need most.
Yes.
In this perfect reality, with the heavens empty aside from the Mighty, All-Powerful Inspekta and his Divine Servant Capotain, there is nothing the people need more than to learn to show proper fealty to their perfect and uncontested leader.
His hands find Inspekta's "shoulders," closing that gap of distance and pulling him closer. It almost feels like a threat. "I'm perfect. You're perfect. This is perfect." Capotain chuckles eagerly, pulling Inspekta closer. He'd pull him inside himself, if he could. Keep him sheltered and well fed for all of time. "The only thing that's wrong is the rest of the world. We have to--- we have to go and kill it. We have to pull it to shreds, choke it out, hold it down until every last livin' soul is loyal enough to bleed for you. We have to pick out everything that ain't useful, everything tasteless, everything imperfect, 'till everyone's singin' your name. Don't you understand, Spek? This is what I was made for."
Inspekta has never truly been threatened before, never faced with blind zeal that rivals his own in his mission to inscribe his name in history. His head, a disjointed, floating thing above his collar, reels away from Capotain's blinded face, large eyes wide with alarm and fear the likes of which he's never felt before.
He's never wanted to kill the world, has he?
He's never wanted to tear it into pieces, seeking that which is only valuable, force everything into a mold to his satisfaction, has he?
The look on his face speaks volumes; he cannot answer that. Even as his face reels back, however, he can't pull himself away from where he hooks desperately onto Capotain. The vicious tangle of urgency and closeness is swayed for nothing, even if he wants to wrench himself away, to pull Capotain with him, to push him and flee. He is a snake eaten and a constrictor swallowing prey. Trapped and trapping another.
He doesn't know. But he does know that this isn't right.
Smooth, shining red fabric bunches as Inspekta tries to free himself. Like a snake caught in the beak of a bird, he winds his long form around the arms that hold him, around the new form of his loyal-est loyalist, shaken and desperate but not knowing what to do. The world feels more and more wrong - he can practically feel the hands on it, twisting and turning it into just the correct shapes. It makes him sick.
"Cappy, this ain't right," Inspekta insists--- but with each word, it's no longer Inspekta's voice, is it? Hardly. Even despite his terror, the voice that leaves his mouth is unmistakably Hector's. "You weren't made for this, we--- we gotta---"
Get out of here? He doesn't know how. These empty heavens are theirs, after all. No Rift to be seen, to both offer doom and freedom in equal measure.
Desperate to try to make him understand, one of those many hands, clinging and grasping and holding on for dear life, moves to try to wrench that blindfold free. Blind faith leading blind desperation cannot get them anywhere, it can only lead them in hungry circles until they collapse in on themselves and one-another.
"Ain't right? Spek, this is all there is! We built this together! These are our heavens now. The other useless gods are dead! All that's left is to rebuild what's left in your image--- just like ya wanted," Capotain says fervently, too lost in his zeal to register the hands grabbing for his blindfold.
It does come off. But Inspekta will not like what he finds underneath.
Two eyelids sewn shut with rough hewn black thread, stitches uneven as if they were installed by hand--- by Capotain himself. The eyelids themselves are concave, indicating that there is nothing behind them but empty sockets. Blue blood crusts the seam, looking like tears.
"Inspekta." His voice grows low, heady, intense. "I love you. I'm gonna make you so happy. Ain't you happy? Ain't you proud of me?"
Perhaps unnervingly, perhaps blessedly, the ever-worsening nightmare is at this point interrupted as the heavens shiver and part in a tangle of swaying, writhing appendages. It’s as if an unseen passage in the sky turns inside out, and from it emerges a rippling incandescent ash cloud, a pyroclastic anemone, and at the center of this disturbance blooms the form of an Unbroken Elf.
She descends towards them, swimming gracefully on updrafts of dream-stuff, while the whole world comes alive with the smell of flowers and ash and sweet-smelling sores and freshly-seared steak.
Do they remember the womer from the town? Does that life exist for them at all right now, in this place where all went horrifically according to plan? Or is this some intruder god, come to tear away a beautiful perfection?
Before he can crumble further, before he can collapse into himself, into this world that is everything that he'd asked for, everything he'd wanted in his darkest moments, he catches a glimpse of something... unfamiliar.
There is no recognition in Inspekta's face the second he catches eye of this interloper, but that's alright. He doesn't need to recognize who this is to know that this woman is exactly what he needs right now, safety wrapped up in tendrils and ash and the feeling of watching the earth crack open, revealing a golden, molten core.
Whoever this is, it can't get worse than what's unfolding between the two of them.
"Hey! Hey, yew! I--- we need yewr help!" Inspekta cries out, twisting in Capotain's grasp, lunging away from him. Almost like he's trying to escape this love, this garden that he'd so carefully tended himself. His hands reach away from him, open, imploring, begging. "Somethin's wrong, please!"
"NO?? Whaddaya mean no???" Capotain bellows, cutting off Inspekta's stumbling. There is rage in his voice. There is heartbreak. He grips Inspekta harder, holds him closer.
Despite the blindfold and empty eyes, Capotain is not fully sightless. Through godly powers, he sees what he needs to. His loyalty is blind--- he sees only Inspekta, and the path toward his leader's goals! Their destiny! And so he does not see this new entity, does not see to whom Inspekta calls. All he knows is that his love, his god, his everything is trying to get away from him.
Sobs wrack Capotain's throat raw as he desperately clings to Inspekta's jacket, trying frantically to keep up with the twisting and yanking Inspekta does to try and free himself. "Don't leave me! Please! Please don't leave me, I'll be good! I promise! I'll do whatever you want! I'll die for you! Just please don't leave me! You're all I got, I-I'm nothin' without you, please! You can't abandon me now--- You--- you made me! You made me this--- this thing! You made me, you can't leave!"
The air grows thick, until it's almost like water. The slug-thing's body unfurls further, her fronds swaying in gentle unison, like a dancing choir, as she circles around them, the flute-voices of her body seeming to mutter and fuss in concern. Her song implores restless, sacrificial meat to allow itself to sleep; for blind eyes to see; for chains to break. She does not touch them, but she drifts just out of reach, somewhere between the breath of a mother's words and the searing heat of black clouds rolling down the burning mountain's slopes.
It feels like drowning, at first, the thick air and grasping at his coat in tandem, leaving him feeling trapped in a cage of his own making. The intricate pieces laid out that only he could have stopped, that only he could have spared them both from--- but the song, slowly but surely, begins to mollify his frantic movements.
Twisting and turning turns to slumping, those clinging hands winning their battles at last. Inspekta's long body winds around Capotain slowly, and the panic in his face turns mournful as the energy in him slows, settles.
His attention flickers up to this stranger god, just beyond them, before he looks back to Capotain, letting his own hands lift to either side of his face.
"I'm sorry, Cappy," he says, soft, despondent. "I ain't leavin' yew. Yew're... yew're right. I... made yew. I made this. I did this to yew. To us."
It's hard to say if the confession is what weighs him, that acknowledgement, or the deeper pull of sleep. He folds his hands around Capochin's back, in the semblance of an embrace - the shape of a heart, that holds them all that much closer.
The song that surrounds them fills the air so deeply that it becomes breathable, and Capotain inhales it into his lungs like an incense. Everything slows down, and the voices beg him to rest.
Capotain doesn't want to rest. He doesn't want to sleep, to stop, to step down. Retirement. That's a death sentence. He resists, struggling. Please, please just let me stay useful for just a little while more. Please let me stay wanted, let me mean something, let me have purpose just a little bit longer. How can he stop now, when he's finally perfect? When Inspekta's trying to leave???
But then, the tension breaks, and he is held. And in an instant, his blindfold floods with tears.
"Together," Capotain murmurs, wrapping his arms around Inspekta. No longer a desperate, pleading grasp. Just a hug. All he wants is comfort. "That's all I ever wanted... was to be together."
He hugs a little tighter. And he lets himself relax.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Capochin cannot place why this fear chews at him so. He wracks his brain and finds only more questions. What happened to King?When did he get voted in? What if he doesn't want to be immortal? Did Inspekta pull strings to make this happen? What if he isn't any good? What if he isn't worthy? What if he doesn't deserve this? What if he hurts someone? What if they hurt someone? Two broken people like Hector and Capochin, given godhood--- what if they hurt people? What if they hurt everyone?
And how dare someone like Capochin even consider standing on equal footing with Inspekta?
Through the cacophony of questions, Capochin reaches his hand into the miasma and pulls one out to ask it.
"What'd I get elected to be the god of?"
Pass
Re: Pass
Inspekta doesn't seem terribly perturbed by the question, though his idle, content swaying slows at last, to something more focused.
"Yew're the God of Loyalty, remember? People lookin' to forge their re-lay-shun-ships and find their place wif other people come to yew!" The answer is given merrily, before a wry little smile is offered Capochin's way. "And, after all, what's Leadership without Loyalty, huh? Yew earned this spot here! Now, c'mon! What'cha draggin' yewr feet for?"
no subject
Of course, how could he have forgotten? How silly.
Inspekta is right. He's always right. The shadows of other gods dance in the golden light of the rift. All that's left is a leap of faith.
Capochin puts a hand in one of Inspekta's, and lets his feet leave the ground. The light consumes him. What a joy it is, to be consumed.To follow Inspekta, his light, his love, his god, his everything, into that all-consuming maw of divinity. And within it, he is reborn. Remade. Body becomes malleable, and he is sculpted into the God of Loyalty.
What emerges is... something awful, actually.
Thick and broad, a blocky body clad in a heavy trenchcoat in dark teal. Squat and wide compared to Inspekta's long and tall. From his neck hangs a tie patterned to look like chain links, tucked into a vest. But what is beneath the vest is not a shirt. Rather, it is an exposed ribcage filled to the brim with what appears to be blue meat that presses at the edges of the bones and threatens to burst through it. No heart. Just meat.
A vintage fedora to match the coat is on top of his head, and a blindfold covers his eyes.
Behold, Capotain, the God of Loyalty.
no subject
What you have become is a miracle beyond measure. Rejoice, for you have been chosen as a guide and an example for those others who might feel inspired to serve.
no subject
There's a jubilant air to the greeting on the other side of the Rift, but it's... dark. Quiet. None of the blustering winds, teeming with energy, none of the crackling life that roared at the intersection of the mortal world and the heavens. The heavens are cold, brimming with static that makes the silence anything but still.
Inspekta's disembodied hands reach from that darkness, and the rest of him coils out of it, a vibrant snake of reds and golds and blues emerging from a thicket, slowly encroaching on the newest addition to the pantheon. His hands find that trench coat, and in some semblance of affection, too betrayed by a firmly-curling fingers into fabric, he latches on, as though he drags himself further on Capotain's hold alone. As if, should he let go, he'd be pulled back into that endless dark.
"Now there's sum-buddy I can trust up here. Someone who I can count on, when the goin' gets tough," Inspekta speaks, that ever-playful, twee voice wavering. His attention is locked onto his now-godly counterpart, and at a distance, it seems wild, hungry. Now that he's pulled himself closer, however, none of those shadows are cast so heavily upon him.
Now, he looks so very afraid.
"...Cappy, something ain't right."
cw: gore, cannibalism, supernatural self-harm
Well, that's not entirely true. There is some part of him that can. Whether it's some sort of newfound godly sight, or it's some kind of psychic ability that allows him to sense his environment without seeing it, or it is simply a part of Capochin's unconscious mind that is in third person to all of this, he is capable of perceiving these events. But fundamentally, Capotain cannot see through his blindfold, blinded by he is by his own loyalty.
"Whaddaya mean, ain't right?" The question comes with an edge of mania, a disconcerting excitement. "Everything is poifect, boss. Jus' you n' me against the woild, right? I'm finally exactly what you needed me to be. I finally fit. I finally have a purpose. I can give ya everything you need. I'll never get old, never get tired, you'll never need to replace me! I'm perfect! I can finally give you all the devotion you deserve---"
His thick-fingered hands, with razor-like claws, lift to where the pulsating meat threatens to bulge out of the gaps in his exposed ribs, and begins to rip strips of it out. The gaps are precisely the width of each finger, and so he digs in with both hands to scoop hunks of flesh from each gap in mighty fistfuls. More quickly replaces it, pushing up against the confines of the ribs and leaving him just as full to bursting as before. He overs his shed strips of meat in open, bloody palms up to Inspekta, fingers trembling---
"---and never, ever run out."
cw: gore, cannibalism, supernatural self-harm
The call is something older than music, beckoning the newly-made divine to swim in a blazing sea, to orbit unquestioning the subject of their devotion. The world is wrong. You will put a star into its mouth to kill it.
Sweet beloved, tender beloved, do you not see that you are the god that the people need most? Why would you hesitate, when the moment of our glory, the moment of our vindication, is so close at hand?
CWs continue
Why does the thought terrify him, all of a sudden?
Why does this perfect reality put him so incredibly on edge?
The empty world bends and warps. He cannot understand what shapes it takes. He does not need to. Unbidden, against the panicked mind that tries to will him to pull away, Inspekta takes the flesh pulled from that still-living chest, sharp teeth shredding it into nothingness. Hands emerge from his coat to snare the strips, while the two on that coat desperately pull Capotain closer, closer, closer, a fit of desperation to be kept close while everything feels so incredibly far away.
Fingers of additional hands lock into that rib cage, forced between the bones and grasping them. Facing that infinite flesh, the fullness that will never succeed in curing Inspekta of his emptiness. He would crawl inside that space if he could.
"Something's wrong," Inspekta repeats, more urgently. His voice ebbs, changes. It drops it's cutesy brightness for something lower, more familiar. More human. "This isn't right. It's not right. I'm not---"
The train of thought cannot continue. It's sacrilege. He cannot speak it.
"Can't yew feel it?"
Re: CWs continue
You are the god that the people need most.
Yes.
In this perfect reality, with the heavens empty aside from the Mighty, All-Powerful Inspekta and his Divine Servant Capotain, there is nothing the people need more than to learn to show proper fealty to their perfect and uncontested leader.
His hands find Inspekta's "shoulders," closing that gap of distance and pulling him closer. It almost feels like a threat. "I'm perfect. You're perfect. This is perfect." Capotain chuckles eagerly, pulling Inspekta closer. He'd pull him inside himself, if he could. Keep him sheltered and well fed for all of time. "The only thing that's wrong is the rest of the world. We have to--- we have to go and kill it. We have to pull it to shreds, choke it out, hold it down until every last livin' soul is loyal enough to bleed for you. We have to pick out everything that ain't useful, everything tasteless, everything imperfect, 'till everyone's singin' your name. Don't you understand, Spek? This is what I was made for."
CWs continue
no subject
He's never wanted to kill the world, has he?
He's never wanted to tear it into pieces, seeking that which is only valuable, force everything into a mold to his satisfaction, has he?
The look on his face speaks volumes; he cannot answer that. Even as his face reels back, however, he can't pull himself away from where he hooks desperately onto Capotain. The vicious tangle of urgency and closeness is swayed for nothing, even if he wants to wrench himself away, to pull Capotain with him, to push him and flee. He is a snake eaten and a constrictor swallowing prey. Trapped and trapping another.
He doesn't know. But he does know that this isn't right.
Smooth, shining red fabric bunches as Inspekta tries to free himself. Like a snake caught in the beak of a bird, he winds his long form around the arms that hold him, around the new form of his loyal-est loyalist, shaken and desperate but not knowing what to do. The world feels more and more wrong - he can practically feel the hands on it, twisting and turning it into just the correct shapes. It makes him sick.
"Cappy, this ain't right," Inspekta insists--- but with each word, it's no longer Inspekta's voice, is it? Hardly. Even despite his terror, the voice that leaves his mouth is unmistakably Hector's. "You weren't made for this, we--- we gotta---"
Get out of here? He doesn't know how. These empty heavens are theirs, after all. No Rift to be seen, to both offer doom and freedom in equal measure.
Desperate to try to make him understand, one of those many hands, clinging and grasping and holding on for dear life, moves to try to wrench that blindfold free. Blind faith leading blind desperation cannot get them anywhere, it can only lead them in hungry circles until they collapse in on themselves and one-another.
no subject
It does come off. But Inspekta will not like what he finds underneath.
Two eyelids sewn shut with rough hewn black thread, stitches uneven as if they were installed by hand--- by Capotain himself. The eyelids themselves are concave, indicating that there is nothing behind them but empty sockets. Blue blood crusts the seam, looking like tears.
"Inspekta." His voice grows low, heady, intense. "I love you. I'm gonna make you so happy. Ain't you happy? Ain't you proud of me?"
cw: infection, general body horror
She descends towards them, swimming gracefully on updrafts of dream-stuff, while the whole world comes alive with the smell of flowers and ash and sweet-smelling sores and freshly-seared steak.
Do they remember the womer from the town? Does that life exist for them at all right now, in this place where all went horrifically according to plan? Or is this some intruder god, come to tear away a beautiful perfection?
no subject
Before he can crumble further, before he can collapse into himself, into this world that is everything that he'd asked for, everything he'd wanted in his darkest moments, he catches a glimpse of something... unfamiliar.
There is no recognition in Inspekta's face the second he catches eye of this interloper, but that's alright. He doesn't need to recognize who this is to know that this woman is exactly what he needs right now, safety wrapped up in tendrils and ash and the feeling of watching the earth crack open, revealing a golden, molten core.
Whoever this is, it can't get worse than what's unfolding between the two of them.
"Hey! Hey, yew! I--- we need yewr help!" Inspekta cries out, twisting in Capotain's grasp, lunging away from him. Almost like he's trying to escape this love, this garden that he'd so carefully tended himself. His hands reach away from him, open, imploring, begging. "Somethin's wrong, please!"
no subject
Despite the blindfold and empty eyes, Capotain is not fully sightless. Through godly powers, he sees what he needs to. His loyalty is blind--- he sees only Inspekta, and the path toward his leader's goals! Their destiny! And so he does not see this new entity, does not see to whom Inspekta calls. All he knows is that his love, his god, his everything is trying to get away from him.
Sobs wrack Capotain's throat raw as he desperately clings to Inspekta's jacket, trying frantically to keep up with the twisting and yanking Inspekta does to try and free himself. "Don't leave me! Please! Please don't leave me, I'll be good! I promise! I'll do whatever you want! I'll die for you! Just please don't leave me! You're all I got, I-I'm nothin' without you, please! You can't abandon me now--- You--- you made me! You made me this--- this thing! You made me, you can't leave!"
no subject
no subject
Twisting and turning turns to slumping, those clinging hands winning their battles at last. Inspekta's long body winds around Capotain slowly, and the panic in his face turns mournful as the energy in him slows, settles.
His attention flickers up to this stranger god, just beyond them, before he looks back to Capotain, letting his own hands lift to either side of his face.
"I'm sorry, Cappy," he says, soft, despondent. "I ain't leavin' yew. Yew're... yew're right. I... made yew. I made this. I did this to yew. To us."
It's hard to say if the confession is what weighs him, that acknowledgement, or the deeper pull of sleep. He folds his hands around Capochin's back, in the semblance of an embrace - the shape of a heart, that holds them all that much closer.
"If we sink," he murmurs. "we sink together."
no subject
Capotain doesn't want to rest. He doesn't want to sleep, to stop, to step down. Retirement. That's a death sentence. He resists, struggling. Please, please just let me stay useful for just a little while more. Please let me stay wanted, let me mean something, let me have purpose just a little bit longer. How can he stop now, when he's finally perfect? When Inspekta's trying to leave???
But then, the tension breaks, and he is held. And in an instant, his blindfold floods with tears.
"Together," Capotain murmurs, wrapping his arms around Inspekta. No longer a desperate, pleading grasp. Just a hug. All he wants is comfort. "That's all I ever wanted... was to be together."
He hugs a little tighter. And he lets himself relax.