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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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?