Work Text:
There are the men who walk the halls of the Ministry in robes and trade their names to be called Ghouls.
And then there are the things that stalk after Sister Imperator with masks of chrome, reflecting your own face back to you when you try to perceive them. Their bodies suggest femininity, but they don't look anything like the other Sisters Of Sin.
"Too many curves," Three points out, one day, not sure how else to describe what he sees.
"Non vi è nulla di simile," Two remarks, so he doesn't have to think about what his brother actually means.
"More of her witch bullshit," One suggests and since he's old enough to be granted access to the Church's secrets and (presumably) know better, they defer to him. Just as they see Sister Imperator, they choose to see witches.
Copia, though, likes to think of them as big cats flanking their queen. Fluid and feline, rippling with darkness around the edges that are not covered by silver mask or black jacket. But when he tries to say, "They're not human!", Three - despite his own observations - snaps back: "You're not human." And between them, it is left at that.
Sister Imperator calls them Ghoulettes. Others smile condescendingly when she does so, like she's saying something cute, something insignificant. Like they can't hear her clearly.
G̸̫̅h̸̗̿o̵̽ͅu̴̠̅l̵̜̀ê̴͎t̵̨̆t̶͕̒ȅ̸͚.
G̶͉͔̻̀͒̽͜h̷͓̭͆o̴̟̠͉͝ų̵̢̠̳̋́ļ̷͈̮͕̎̇̔̉ë̵̢́̽ṯ̸̩̪̉͘͝ͅt̸͍͍̲͂̽̕e̴̺̽͘.
Copia tilts his head and watches her lips carefully when she addresses the women-things with no name. The shape her mouth makes doesn't match his when he tries to copy her. How does she do that, say two different things at the same time?
Witch bullshit is the obvious answer.
The more interesting one comes when she catches him watching.
"Listen," she commands. ""G̶h̴o̴u̷l̶e̵t̷t̴e̶." G̶̻̥̻̐̊́h̴̭̐̐̔ ̴̛̙̥̯͉̺̹̮̌̌̀̏̊͑͊V̵̠̈́̍̊̅ ̷̧̨̥̺̞̤̠͙̤̓̈́̀̚o̸̢̗̯͍͙̝̭͇͙͑̓̍̈̎ ̶̛͓͍̮͎͖͎̂͋͗͐I̴̘̺̞̣͛͂̊̇̒͘̕͠ ̸̬̰͙̭͎͗̈́̆̈́̈́̈́̄͝ȗ̵̢͔̼̟̖̞̘̩̘͒̐͒l̷̗̅̓̂͒͑̂̒͌ ̸̨͉͉͇͉͓̆̎̐N̷̲͉̬̞̘̬̣͓͆ ̷̡͇̞͇̬̥̇̐ͅͅe̴̡̲̩̞̟͔̓ͅ ̴̜͙͖̼̠̙̦̾̉̉̓̂̄Ē̸̮͗̀̉ ̴̛̤̥̝̘̮̘̦̉̐͆̈́̚t̴̨͎͎͉̟̥̻̹͔͗̕ṭ̸̢̧̯̱̜̤̒̇̂̓̏͊ ̸͈̗̫͋A̶͕̤̞̱̟͘ ̴̺͈̩̻̠̦̒̔͘ͅē̷̗͛͝.
"G̶h̴o̴u̷l̶e̵t̷t̴e̶," she says again. Ġ̸͙̎ ̵̘̞͙̭͖̱͗̍̈́͂B̶͔͓̃͆̽̈́̋̐ͅ ̵̼̤͋̈́̒h̸̤͎̰̩͔̗͂̌̈́ő̷̗̼̞̖̒ ̴̢͙̫̩̈́͗̌͂̄͑Ṷ̴̺̮̟̜͕̆ ̶̣̏̀̚̕u̷͕̙̺͛͌̏͜͜l̸̹̳͕̉̇̓̑͌ ̸̨̤͉̙̇͑͐̿̌E̷̛̺̲͙̽͊ ̷̞̪̅͗̂ë̶̼̣̫́̈͋t̶̢̲̅͐ ̵̝̜̒̍̑͒Ṛ̷̻͒͊̈́̔̕ ̸̱͓̄ͅt̸̥̼̳̰̉̈́ě̸͎̓͜͝.
He can't repeat it back to her, but she releases his arm, knowing that he hears.
"No one else does," he tells her. "Not Three," he says, only because Three is the best point of reference he has in his young life for being able to do anything. "Not any of them. Does Papa know, too?"
"Papa Nihil hears," Imperator confirms. "But saying doesn't concern him."
Decades pass. When he addresses Sister's companions, they both glance up, always moving together as one. It's not what he wishes would happen, but it is more than they do for anyone else. Not even for Three.
He finally does it, one day, passing them on the way to mass. "Ṿ̷̢̢̂́i̵̡̧͉̺̖̪̽͊͜͜n̷̢̗̠̤̮̕ͅe̵̡̨̛̻͎̹̻͊a̶̻̜̻̓͑."
The taller of the two Ghoulettes breaks from her small flock first. Turns. Something glistens behind the darkness that fills the mask's eye holes. She - it - nods her head.
There's a smile creeping onto Sister Imperator's face, one Copia has only ever seen her wear when she thinks no one else is watching the way she and Papa Nihil lean together when they walk in the same direction.
"B̵̮̘̲̯͕̈́̽͑̒̊ų̷̨̨̑̊̾̈́̆͗̍͝e̴̻̰̗͙͈̪̎̃̊̅͜r̴͔̹̙̃̎̐̎͌̄͂ͅͅ?" he tries and the small Ghoulette, previously threatening to vibrate right out of its shape in anticipation, clasps gloved hands to where its mouth should be and bows quickly.
Sister Imperator beams.
The next day when she summons him, he enters a chapel carpeted in sigils. He of course expects Sister and her lionesses, but did not count on an audience of Ghouls staring him down, equally as precariously contained behind masks that almost look like ones given to the men who play music with Three.
"Listen," Sister Imperator instructs, once again. "And repeat after me."
Copia obeys, eager and reverent.
"Ghoulette." B̴̘͈̳̿̇̄u̷̢͑̅̓e̷̡͆r̵̨̃.
"Ghoulette." Ṿ̷́̋̃̒̍͘͝i̵̬͔͇̫͇̲̠̓̂n̷̦̗͗̂̏ę̷̗͕̗̬͒̐́͘a̸̢̧̮̦͕͚͚̯͛.
Having already paid their respects, the pair declines to bow again but manage to convey a level of interest that ought to be impossible from behind static faces.
"Ghoul." R̷̢̤͔̦̈́ȋ̸̤̙̮̳͂͘b̶̻͔̔̽e̶̩͎̍̈̿̿s̷̛͉̮̄͑̏ȧ̸̲͔͍̆l̸͔̳̩̟̉̊̊͋. The room quakes as it settles.
"Ghoul." B̴͇̓͆ų̸̣̤̙̭̤̇͋n̴̪͍̜͈͈͓̿é̴̜̝̻̣̜̣͖͚̔͑͝͝. It wriggles with excitement.
"Ghoul." Á̴̪̠͔͎͒͝m̶̲̹̂̾͝d̷̡̘̥͎̜͆u̶̧̙̥͒̍̃̚s̸͖̮̐î̶̗̟̭͘̚ͅa̵͚̫͑s̷̠͚̰̫̃̾͛͌͝. Thunder echoes in the room, but is that its instrument or its...voice? Copia can't tell.
"Ghoul." B̵̧̧̛̺͚̙̤͙̲̩̣̫͕͔̖̼̝̅̏̾͒̈͋̈́̓̇̓͐̃͆͛̓̓̈͠ę̷̧̧̥̙̳̗̺̦̱͍̞̰̲͉̯͕͚͂̆͆̚ͅḩ̷͖̥̟̜̌̆̒̃̍̈́̈͋̄̚ȩ̵̛̹̞̈́̂̑̓̒̎̔̄͒͋̑͂̓̓͘̕͝m̶̭͓̝͎̩͈̝̓͊̉̈̄̈͆̈̿̽͆̐͛͘͝o̷̡͙̻̳͇͔̥̞͙̱̠̱̩͔̽͗̎̈́͒͛́̔̚͜͜͠t̸̨̞̤̣̫͙̭͙̝̫̪̺̣̮̖͖̝͌̎̽͌̊̽͊̈͜h̶̢̪̟̞̞̲͙̭̻̣̣̼̗͒͗̿̌̈͋̀̈́͆͂͂̽̓̽͝. Sweet Satan, the hulking thing barely fits into its suit. But of all of them, it's the only one to approach, to lean in and peer down closely at him. It - oh, Lucifer on his Throne - gives Sister Imperator a thumbs up. What the fuck. (And why is he sweating, now? When did it get so...h-hot in here??)
"Ghoul." B̷̨̪̦̥͉͍̯͇̱̣̠̖̄̓̈̃̏ͅͅͅę̴͇̬̖̝̞̐̈̇́̇̚l̶̨̫̩̹̰̖̩̻̹̱͑̀̑͋͆̇̌̐̋͊͜͠ͅe̸̢͔̲͔̫̮̊͊̓̈́̄͊̀̈̓̈̔̕ͅt̴̙̜̽̉́̓̆̾̓̓́̏̐̎͂̉ḩ̵̢̡̻̟̂͗͋̔͝͝. It's small, but furious. It hisses, spits fire, and sticks its barbed tongue out as far as its defined shape will allow.
"Don't mind that one," Imperator scoffs. "He'll do as he's told."
"A̴n̷d̶ ̸l̶i̶k̵e̸ ̵i̵t̶," the huge Ghoul rumbles close to Copia's ear, causing him to jump. They all make a sound that could be laughter, but whether that's for startling him or the joke is anyone's guess.
"They can speak?"
"When they wish to." Sister Imperator shrugs. "Typically only amongst themselves, but I suppose with the right master, anything is possible."
"Why me?" Copia can't hold back. "Why not, you know." His turn to shrug. He thinks of Nihil's sons; of One, the first to be allowed to step in front of a microphone. Of Two, signing autographs in Los Angeles and waving his dick around to a room full of women for a music video. Of Three, everyone's golden child (even Sister's, loath as she'd be to admit), all but literally chomping at the bit for the chance to take hold of the band's reins. "Anyone else."
The old witch is reading his mind, she must be, when her utterance of distaste (...disgust? disappointment?) pulls the breaks on his train of thought. "They take after their mothers."
"So?"
Sister Imperator pats him gently on both cheeks and leaves him with this: "You take after yours."
But Copia won't know what she means for years to come.