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?
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no subject
Date: 2025-04-26 04:30 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2025-04-27 04:23 am (UTC)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
Date: 2025-04-27 05:02 am (UTC)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
Date: 2025-04-27 06:00 am (UTC)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
Date: 2025-04-27 06:47 am (UTC)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
Date: 2025-04-27 07:25 am (UTC)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
Date: 2025-04-27 03:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-05-16 03:05 am (UTC)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
Date: 2025-05-17 05:39 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2025-05-20 04:44 pm (UTC)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?