Chapter Text
Recuerdos en la Muerte (Memories In Death)
Ch. 1 - The Lost and Found
Delores feels lighter than she should. Yes, she loved the way soul matter elevated her as it coursed through her veins, strengthening her and tearing her away from the constraints of mortality, but this wasn’t that. This was disorienting, but more importantly, she felt vulnerable. Weaker than she had felt in a long time. In attempting to open her eyes, her head convulsed in pain. It was still the same musty darkness but somehow not? She wrenched her arms forward but hit something solid and grooved, in separate locations. Ah, it seemed her body was present and accounted for, but not presently together. The memories of her “wedding night” flooded her throbbing skull as she attempted to regain her bearings. “Betelgeuse,” she growled. Her lungs didn’t need the raspy breath she attempted, but the act of breathing calmed her long enough to focus on what she needed to do.
Shimmying off a shelf is harder than it looks when you’re in 6 pieces, but she always excelled in making the best of a situation. It’s how she survived and now it would be how she would be resurrected. Focusing on shaking a singular body part is easier said than done, you never consider how the action echoes through your body. But she writhed and shook her jumbled parts until weightlessness is all there is, then slamming on the ground, and the beautiful sound of splintering wood. The air here smells worse than inside the box. An acrid and pungent scent, like the tinctures sham doctors toted in their hovels. Nevertheless, anything is better than the bed she temporarily shared with that disgusting thief. Betelgeuse, that filthy, slovenly, pig. Fifteen years of forming a cult, learning black magic, avoiding Church persecution, consuming almost all the souls she needed to become the goddess she knew she deserved to be. All taken away by a dying man and her hatchet. Now she was in pieces on cold and slightly wet tiles and practically powerless. NO, she will not be thwarted by some filthy mongrel. She’s out of the boxes, which means she can piece herself together again. Her rage had already set her hand in motion, now all she needs to do is focus it on something. A few feet away lies a strange chest, filled with all manner of unusual tools. Needle and thread would be most ideal but Delores finds herself drawn to the silver handle of a peculiar device. After squeezing it a few times, she realizes it spits out small metal sutures that could bind her severed limbs. It takes more concentration than she’d like to admit to drag it to her, every scuttling motion makes her feel like she’s being sliced up all over again. The agony is over shortly, as her hand bumps against her face. Her face. . . Something is missing from her face. She desperately feels around for anything and to her relief, finds her right eye, cheek, and ear. Gripping the suture spitter, she braces for the gory task ahead of her. However, the stabbing pain never comes. Each silvery bit that she shoots into herself is inconsequential. She can’t. feel. it. She can’t feel anything except her growing horror and steady pulse of her rage. The sutures are applied in record time on her part, there is no sun or way to tell how long she has been down here but it felt quick. She slowly attempts a wobbly step forward, and another, and another. She can do this, it will take time, but she’s already walki-. “Eughhh,” a low moan worms its way into her newly sutured ear and it immediately irritates her. However, it also brings the prospect of other people, other souls to make her strong.
Gingerly, she slowly wanders over to the sound. As she does so, she observes her current prison. The white and black tiles are charming, but the various artifacts and treasures that are mounted on the towering shelves surrounding her are what truly capture her attention. Another, whinier moan is emitted from a pile of boxes she hadn’t seen yet and the most peculiar man emerges from them. He’s short with eyes white like lightning, which would be strange enough all on its own but it’s trumped by the fact that he’s completely blue. And not just any kind of blue, a rich lapis lazuli that only the most prominent royalty wears. It’s not even spoiled by the caked on layers of yellow grime and yellow liquid that spills onto his chin. The tiny man grunts and shakes himself off, eyeing her with suspicion and annoyance. “You better get out of here, Toots.” he warns. Delores does not understand what “Toots” is, but she can already tell she doesn’t like to be called it. “This is a restricted are-umphf-” his remark is soon cut off by her iron grip. It shocks her how easily she strode toward and snatched this little man by the neck. Maybe she’s not so powerless after all. “Where. . . is. . . Betelgeuse,” she snarls. The ghoulish man shrinks back in terror at her rasping voice. “I-I-I- don’t know who that is!” He shrieks. “Well. . . if you can’t give me Betelgeuse. . . Perhaps you can give me something to eat.” She grins, all teeth, as the man’s eyes widen in fear as she leans in close. She slurps out his wretched soul in seconds, leaving behind a shriveled husk that still somehow leaks that noxious yellow goo. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to send a message.