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He did it.
He won.
Inspekta watched, awestruck. His plan—his plan had actually worked.
The gods were helpless in the maelstrom of magic and light of the Rift. The magnificent tear in the fabric of reality wrended the sky in a brilliant, blinding, beautiful spectacle of light and sound and dying gods.
All but him, for Inspekta had come prepared, tethered to all planes of existence. His hundreds of hands held him fast to the reality of mortals while his Tower of Babel—and burgers and buns and chairs—sanctioned the union between his domain to the both physical and immaterial existences.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
The stage was set. The curtain was drawn. The match was lit. All he had left to do was sit back and watch the fireworks.
Cobigail was wrenched from her soil and sent flying like a stalk in a twister. Bauhauzzo fractured in a shower of weathered, crumbling stone, like the fall of so many nations before. Huzzle Mug did its best to cling to its sibling, but the force of everything stretched it further and further, like a rubber band pulling infinitely until it spaghettified. Inspekta couldn’t even see Click Clack anymore, the tiny god lost in the storm. All that was left of him was his mask, clasped in Thespius desperately reaching hand as he cried for his love in vain.
“Inspekta, why?!”
Mitternacht cried out to him. She always cried, the old sap, but now her tears fell in buckets and only added to the tempest that overtook the skies and the heavens. She was only making it worse. Her useless weeping did nothing to stop history.
“Why didn’t you just tell us how you felt?! Why did you do this?! Why? We would have listened! Inspekta—Please!”
Inspekta did not answer her. He only smiled at her as she too was swept away, her cries drowned out along with the others.
Then, in an instant that stretched on for millennia, they were shattered and gone, swept away like the tide, and in their wake was only shining golden cosmos, spotlighting Inspecta in all his glory.
He stood proud and tall at the top of the world, finally, where he belonged.
No more pantheon. No more false idols. No more ascension. Only him.
Alone.
Eternity descended upon him with the force of ballistic warhead. He was alone now. There were no other gods. No more competition for the love of the masses. No one to go to for advice for things he didn’t need. No one to tell him that it was normal for your body to become intangible in certain mortal spaces. No one to console him when mortals were too busy to visit. No one who understood. No one left who understood him at all.
He stared into the infinite abyss above him and laughed. He wanted to cry. Now he never could again.
“Baws?”
He turned, and felt a warmth that dwarfed even that of the brightest sun, and something small and scared and sad pulled painfully within his godly being. He had no throat, but if he did, he would’ve cleared it then.
There, standing so small and so insignificant in the world below, stood Capochin.
His captain. His loyalist follower, who never questioned his leadership or doubted his intent even in his darkest moments. His lovely, darling, wise-cracking—best and only friend in the whole wide world—acolyte.
He smiled up at Inspekta. Waiting, expectant. Adoring.
“You did it, Baws! No more false gods, just like ya said! One god is plenty!”
Inspekta would’ve jumped for joy if his body still needed to. With how powerful he was, he wasn’t even sure his body was all there. He felt incredible. He was everywhere. He was infinite. But now, most important of all, he wasn’t alone.
He’d never be alone! Not with all his mortal believers serving him. Feeding him. Adoring him.
Even then, the joys of sitting on the throne of godhood suddenly seemed to pale in comparison to his subordinate’s infectious glee. He could always count of Capochin to brighten his mood when things grew grim. He’d been by Inspekta’s side since the beginning after all, back when he was just a humble vigilante liberating the masses from the Drain. All had followed, but Capochin had been the first.
He would have to remember to thank Capochin someday—
“Inspecta, what’s—what’s happening?”
Oh.
Capochin wasn’t smiling anymore. Why was his chum so glum? Sometimes Capochin was overtake by sour moods, certainly, but usually a little pat on the head or a gentle caress of his tiny face was enough to bring that radiant toothy grin of his back. Inspekta reached out to him—
And then the Rift began eating the Spire.
Mortals screamed in terror and ran from the fire and rain as it descended upon them in a flood of torment. Bizzyboys and humans alike were swept away with shrieks and drowned out by firestorm. Their deaths were swift, not drawn out and languid like the gods. They were not doomed to suffer for eternity. It was like watching bugs being smacked with an electric fly swatter. One second they were flesh and bone, and the next, nothing.
No.
No no no.
NO!
Stop! Stop the show! This wasn’t what he wanted!!!
The Rift was only supposed to swallow the gods! Not the mortal plane! No no no, his beloved followers! His—His Boys!
He reached out, frantic to close the Rift, releasing his tether.
It was no use, he was too late. It was already so big. Bigger than anything. Bigger than the universe. It had already swallowed the sky. Earth was next. All of Mortality on Earth screamed in defiance and grief and anger and pain as they were devoured by a light that burned brighter than the sun.
He couldn’t close the Rift alone. If only he hadn’t—
If only he weren’t—
Screaming with a mouth that made no noise over the roar of the Rift, he reached his hundreds of hands outwards to shield the Bizzyboys from their untimely ends. If he couldn’t save everyone, he could at least save the ones he’d sworn to liberate, to protect and lead with his very life. But there were so many Bizzyboys and only so many hands. And they were all so small, so squirmy. In the end he was only able to shield a few of them, and not for long before the heat burnt them to a crisp.
Until all that was left was Capochin, clinging to life and reaching for him.
“Baws…”
Inspekta cradled Capochin in his palms and watched the life drain from him. Had his friend always been so small? So fragile? So scared? So trusting that Inspekta would always be able to save him?
“Hector…!”
He’d proven Capochin wrong. He’d let his Bizzyboys down. He’d lost the one person who’d had any true faith left in Inspecta down, spectacularly. He’d lost.
A voice sighed in his head. As if it knew things would come to this.
The voice sounded like King.
“Why didn’t you talk to us, Inspekta?”
It was King. She stood below him, the sole survivor of the sound and fury. She didn’t have long left to live. She’s never become a god. She needed to run! Why was she just standing there?!
“The gods would have listened. I would’ve listened to you. Why couldn’t you share the love of the masses? Now they’re all gone.”
Inspekta tried to answer her, but his voice was gone. There was so much noise. No matter how loud he tried to shout, only the eloquent godpoke’s voice rose above the clamor as flames rose higher and higher, licking her face and melting her skin like wax. Bodies of Bizzyboys surrounded her on the Spire, their tiny bodies no longer whole.
“No more gods, save for one. No more worshippers either. Nothing left to honor and no more honor to give. All that’s left is a chair to sit on.”
King’s skull smiled sadly yet unkindly at him, till that too, was engulfed in flames. Her hat was all that remained. It blew up, up, up, and landed on Inspekta’s head, crowning him.
“You got what you wanted. Enjoy your empty kingdom.”
Inspekta didn’t understand.
He won.
And yet.
He’d failed as a God. As a leader. As a friend. Drain him, he’d failed as a friend.
And he’d gotten exactly what he wanted by doing so.
He watched, screaming in vain for his Bizzyboys, for King, for Capochin to come back to him, to open his eyes, please, please, please little buddy please. The world and all of existence collapsed into a singularity around him, but all he cared about was the small life burning out in his arms.
He screamed and cried and begged for the gods to come back. For them to help him. For Bauhauzzo to rebuild what once was. For Cobigail to raise a rallying row with Thespius in song. For Click Clack to write a better ending to this story, or for Huzzle Mug to change it into something beautiful and harmlessly strange. For Mitternacht to hold him like the weeping babe he truly was and tell him everything would be alright.
For King to forgive him.
For Capochin to come back.
But they never would come back. Nothing would ever come back again. He was all that was left. A ruler of nothing for all time.
Now.
He was truly.
All.
Alone.
“BAWS! HECTOR! WAKE UP!”
Reality broke through the horrific vision of Armageddon, and Inspekta bolted awake with an ear-piercing scream.
The Bizzyboys screamed right back.
“Baws! Baws ah youse okay?!”
“Maybe he’s hungry?”
“No ‘Lex, dats just you. Yewr alllllways hungry.”
Bizzyboys crowded around him, some of the smaller ones even crawling on top of his stomach to get a peek at their distressed leader. The crowding was making it harder to get air past the tightness in his throat. What were all the Bizzyboys doing here? Why were they out of uniform? Where was the Spire? The Rift? Was—wasn’t the world ending just a few moments ago?
“Whahappuh! I thought we was jus’ watchin’ a movie!”
“Baws, yew was screamin’ ya head awf!”
“Dah movie wasn’t DAT scary, was it?? I didn’t know Dawkewmentaries scared you dat much,” said Bananathaniel, who squinted suspiciously at a stack of DVD cases ponderously. “Maybe a Rom Com would be bettah?”
“Ahh—uh—”
No. Wait. That was wrong. He wasn’t at the Spire, surrounded by blinding gold. He was on a couch—his couch, the one with the busted spring that always stuck into his back—under the soft glow of an overhead bug lamp and the tiny tv.
Inspekta—no, no he was Hector again! He—He wasn’t Inspekta anymore.
He was himself, in a van, with a bunch of Bizzyboys who most definitely were not dead. Unless they were all dead. Oh gods—did they all die together in the Festival of the Rift after all? Was this the afterlife he was destined for? A dimension where he was crushed by the bodies of all the boys he’d failed? It would be fitting.
All the boys—wait.
Capochin.
Where was Capochin?
He’d suffer a thousand unkind afterlives, he knew he deserved to, but his wretched soul could never survive without his second in command. Had his transgressions been horrid enough to take Capochin away from him, even in the afterlife?
He gripped his chest and scoured the sea of teal and green faces that watched him with wary concern, searching desperately for one with messy straight hair and small, tired eyes.
“Cap—where’s—he—C-Cappy—!”
“Awright awright, enough awready! Everybody stahp crowdin’ ‘im! Back awff, all a’ ya!! Give dah guy some air, fah Thessake!”
The senior Drain folk pushed his way past the sea of lieutenants and shoved everyone back far enough that, finally, Hector was able to take a long breath of cool air. Not a moment too soon, his poor heart felt ready to give out any moment. Once the captain had set up a proper perimeter, Hector coughed and tried to sit up—ouchies, the spring—finally taking stock of what happened and where he was.
The interior of the old campaign van was graciously spacious, despite Inspekta’s domain no longer inhabiting the interior. Perhaps being touched by godly magic was the very reason it’d been granted a smidge more elbow room than it had before—at least enough to fit in a moth-eaten couch, a 12 inch cathode tube, and enough threadbare cushions and crates to cover the—now mostly smushed—shag carpet flooring.
The Bizzyboys sat watching on those floor pillows and crates, some hanging from hammocks made of old fish netting, some anxiously inching close enough to lean on the arms of the couch. They were all wearing pajamas—except for Vibiano, who was wearing a satin Zhong Yi so luxurious that it would’ve been far more suited for a pillow fight with royalty than movie night with the Boys—and holding snacks. The only ones not noshing were Patty, who was holding his favorite pirate-mermaid-robot teddybear, and Grusha—Grujaja? Hector couldn’t recall that one’s name—who was holding a traffic cone as if it were a teddy.
Hector counted heads. There were at least a dozen present, maybe two dozen, but he was still shaking, sweat matting the fur of his neck and fogging his glasses. On top of it all, his eyes hurt. He couldn’t get an exact count. He couldn’t think. All he could do was imagine everyone’s faces melting away to nothing but bleached white skulls. This thought made his eyes hurt even more.
He closed them tightly shut, trying to banish the image from his sight, but it was burnt into his mind’s eye. His eyes scrunched so tightly that he was seeing stars, and now his throat couldn’t swallow properly. Was he dying? It would be a mercy. Maybe if he died he could spare his boys the pain of having a miserable, useless leader who left them to die all for a taste of glory—
Worried chatter surrounded him. A hand, calloused and small, touched his shoulder.
“Hey—Hector—breathe. Just breathe.”
Capochin.
He was there. Hector could hear him. But was it real? Was it all more tortured visions?
“Easy, Bawsman. Yer okay. It was just a bahd dream. Yer fine. Yer okay.”
A… dream?
Hector opened his eyes, blinking blurriness away from his vision. Sure enough, he was still in the van, sitting on a couch, surrounded by his comrades, Capochin front and center.
Capo looked tired. Dilapidated, in a way. As captain of the Bizzyboys, he needed to don a air of confidence that cut through the stress of being the go-between for a god and his followers. His humongous grin, endless bravado, and loud voice always made Hector forget about his crooked tail, his scrapes and bandages, his smile-lines, and the heavy, dark circles under his eyes. Or maybe that was just his eyeliner?
At that moment, he wasn’t smiling like he had been in Hector’s nightmare. Standing in front of him now, holding the sides of Hector’s arms—the former god was hugging his sides and rocking himself. When had he started doing that? He hadn’t rocked himself since he was a cub back in the Drain—Capochin looked all the decades of age that Hector had known him. Older, softer, exasperated, but somehow still focused solely on his leader, holding him as if to keep him from rocking off the edge of the world. All that strength, while being as fragile and mortal as they come.
“…Cappy?”
“Yeah,” Capochin’s whole body sighed in relief, and he smirked. It wasn’t his usual big-toothed smile, all teeth and no fear, but it was nice to see all the same. Had he been worried about his leader? “Yeah, ‘m right heyeh Hector. I was gonna wake ya up sooner, but youse was pretty beat. Ya fell asleep soon as dah movie stahted.”
“Dah… Movie… s’ movie nite…”
“Dat’s right. It’s movie night,” Capochin coaxed, pulling Hector’s arms loose from their vice grips on his sides. He ignored the pinpricks in his sides that his untrimmed claws left behind. “Bananathaniel’s idea, ‘member? We was watchin’ a movie togedah. We planned it last week. We voted on a historic movie about dah Grove, right? But, uh. Youse been busy all week wit dah renovations in BuzzHuzz and at dah Spire. Ye fell asleep on dah couch. You ain’t gone nowhere.”
“D-dah Spy-yah…”
The captain’s smirk fell as the former god began to shake again.
“I was at dah Spy-yah. Dah Rift…! It… y-you…!”
Capochin’s eyes widened. Hector curled forward and buried his face into his knees.
“You was all sucked inta dah Rift!” he finally choked out, the pain in his eyes and throat and chest finally overwhelming him. “I—I won—!”
The small hands on his arms held all the tighter. As if they were enough to keep Hector from falling apart.
“Baws—!”
“I YOPENED DAH RIFT!” He wailed into his knees.
“No! No no no—no, dat whole mess was months ago, Hector! Ya plan didn’t woik—”
“I watched dah gods die—an—and I didn’ even CARE! I watched dem all die for furevah! And dhen—an’ dhen I saw YEW ALL DIE! AND YOU WERE GAWN! I tried ta sayve yew awll—but you were GAWNERS!!!”
Capochin's hands clenched in panic for a moment before Hector felt something soft and warm envelope the back of his neck. Capochin had wrapped both arms around his head, and was trying in vain to rub his back in comfort despite not being able to reach. Hector would’ve laughed if he weren’t already feeling so wretched. He didn’t deserve the comfort.
“An’—an’ it was my fawlt! I was awll alone—and—it was—all—my—fawlt!”
The flood gates opened. Tears soaked into his bellbottoms, falling unbidden as the horrors of his nightmare sunk their teeth into him. How close he’d gotten to ruining everything in reality.
As a god, Inspekta could feel grand emotions but also not truly feel them at the same time. It was like feeling everything in the world all at once, but knowing you were powerful enough to overcome it. What use was there in carrying on when you were powerful enough to handle it? It all paled in comparison to mortality, where one could still feel everything in the world and not know what to do about it.
How did they do it? How did mere humans hold all these feelings? How can humans live with hearts so heavy? How did he ever manage to hold it all as a mortal before ascending to godhood? It all just felt like too much—enough to make any mortal man explode.
“Baws, no no no, it’s okay, it’s okay! We’re all here, we’re alive! Uhh—right boys??”
“R-right!”
“Yeah!”
“Inspek—Hector, sir! Don’ cry!”
“We’re all roight here!”
Dozens of hands and tiny fuzzy bodies crowded him once more, gently, carefully wrapping themselves around their leader to console him. It should’ve been suffocating, but…
Back in The Drain, before their pilgrimage to The Cove, it was normal for Hector and his barracks to huddle together in piles. With the damp and the cold of the deep deep down, it was the only way to stay safe, to band together in the event something big and scary came their way. It was also the only way to keep warm.
Above the Drain, it was almost too warm to huddle in piles like they all used to. The familiar feeling of being surrounded by his Bizzyboys pulled Hector from the spiraling feeling in his chest, though the tears still fell unbidden.
Eventually, he pulled his snot-smeared face, flushed from a bluish teal to a deep navy. Though his vision was incredibly smudged by his tear-stained glasses, he could see all the boys—healthy, breathing, whole, if now a little teary themselves—holding onto him as fiercely as they’d helped hold the Rift shut long enough for the gods to fix his mistake. Maybe even tighter.
He turned to Capochin, who looked even more frazzled than before. Had those dark circles gotten darker?
Carefully, Capochin took Hector’s glasses and wiped them on the front of his shirt before returning them to Hector’s face. It didn’t really help that much. But, for some reason unknown to him, it made Hector feel better.
“Awright,” Capochin sighed. “Tomorrow we’re visitin’ Mitternacht.”
Hector cringed, memories of the goddess sobbing in his mind.
“I-I don’t tink—”
“I’m gonna give that old broad a piece’a my moind for lettin’ her favorite little buddy have nightmares on her watch! Dah noive a’ some gods!”
“S’not her fault…” Hector said, ducking his head down. “She’s dah god of night, nawt nightmares—”
“Dhen we’ll just pay a visit. Yew can tawk to her about whatcha saw, if she don’t already know. All-knownin’ goddess a’ night and all.”
Oh. Oh god. Did Mitternacht see dreams? Was that a power she had as the goddess of night? Why hadn’t Hector ever thought to ask her about that?! Ohhh, if she saw that then she’d absolutely try to ask Hector if he was alright! Oh, gods, how embarrassing!
He groaned, ducking his head down again. But Capochin wasn’t having it. He lifted Hector’s face by the chin, holding his face and mushing his cheeks.
“Youuuuuuu should talk to herrrrr,” Capochin droned in a mockingly robotic tone. “I knowwwww talkin’ about yer feelins’ is hard. Believe me, I get it. But you already tried holdin’ yer feelings in before. Not gonna let you make dat same mistake twice.”
Ugh. Of course Capochin was right. Drain It All.
“I’m—I know. M’sowwy—I… m’a mess.”
“Yer our mess, sir,” Capochin sighed. Or. Was that a chuckle? “Forevah. Got it?”
“FOREVAH!” echoed the now openly weeping crowd of cuddle-puddling Bizzyboys.
Mortals didn’t live forever.
The thought worked itself into Hector’s mind and dug its familiar parasitic claws into it.
However, as Capochin crawled into what space was left in the huddle around the former god—conveniently enough, right onto his lap and into his arms—Hector shooed the thought away, and vowed to not think about it until much, much later.
He soon drifted to sleep again, in the arms of his men. He did not dream. He only felt. He felt the softness of the cushions beneath him, the warmth and the weight of his Bizzyboys against him, his captain’s tiny mortal arms holding him close.
And Hector, no longer Inspekta, was no longer alone.