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Copia tugged at the wrist of his glove for what felt like the hundredth time. His nerves buzzed beneath his skin, sharper than they'd been since Sister Imperator first presented him to Papa Nihil as the next foreman. Nihil's approval had been a shock—still was, in many ways. Now, the moment had come to summon his own ghouls, and dread churned in his gut.
What if they didn’t like him? What if none came at all?
The heavy wooden door creaked open. Sister Imperator offered him a brief, encouraging smile. “We’re ready for you, Cardinal.”
Her tone was warm, respectful. It always threw him off. Of all the cardinals she could’ve supported, why him?
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Copia drew in a steadying breath and stepped inside.
The chamber was dim, lit only by black candles arranged in a path leading to the altar. A red pentagram had been painted across the stone floor. At the far end, Papa Nihil stood beside the altar, an ancient tome spread open before him. He beckoned Copia forward with a subtle flick of his hand.
A second pentagram had been drawn on the altar itself. Beside it rested a black athame, its blade catching the candlelight.
“Read this,” Nihil instructed, gesturing to the ritual text. “As you do, slice your palm and press it to the sigil.”
“That’s it?” Copia blurted before he could stop himself.
Nihil turned to him with a scowl. “What were you expecting, Cardinal?”
“Nothing, Papa. I just… I didn’t think it would be so simple.”
“It is not simple,” Nihil snapped. “To access the dark arts—true satanic magic—is to walk a path fraught with peril.”
Copia nodded quickly. “Yes, Papa. Sorry, Papa.”
He moved to take Nihil’s place at the altar, hands trembling as he gripped the athame. The Latin words on the page felt awkward on his tongue, heavy and foreign. Each syllable clashed with the quiet voice in his head whispering, You were never meant for this.
No cardinal had ever summoned ghouls before. And deep down, Copia feared he might be the first to fail.
He drew in a shaky breath and drove the blade into his palm. The sting made his fingers twitch, but he forced himself not to flinch. Blood welled up from the cut, warm and slow, trickling along the lifeline etched in his skin. Once the gash was deep enough, he pressed his hand into the painted pentagram.
A pulse of energy radiated from the contact point.
Both pentagrams flared with an eerie, unnatural light—red tinged with shadows, like embers glowing beneath ash. The candles flickered violently. The air shifted.
Shapes began to emerge from the glowing sigil—at first just dark outlines in the haze, vague and formless. Then they grew sharper, more solid, until eight distinct figures stood before him, motionless within the pentagram’s boundary.
They were tall, imposing, and eerily identical—clad in black, their faces hidden behind expressionless masks. There was no sound but the low hum of energy still crackling in the air.
Copia’s breath caught.
These were his ghouls.
He knew that in time, he might earn the right to see their true faces. But to the rest of the world, they would remain masked—silent shadows that served only him.
As the last echoes of the ritual faded, Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil silently turned and left the chamber, the heavy door closing behind them with a thud. Copia descended from the altar slowly, his steps uncertain. He flexed his hand, only now realizing the wound in his palm had vanished—no blood, no scar, not even a hint of pain.
He clapped his hands together with an anxious sort of cheer.
“Well! Hello! You are… my ghouls!”
They said nothing—just stood in a silent line, statuesque and unreadable behind their masks. Copia shifted his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting with the fingers of his gloves.
“So… um, what are your names?”
A long, uncomfortable pause followed. Then one of them finally spoke, voice low and distant, like a breath of wind through old stone.
“You must name us.”
“Oh, right, right,” Copia said quickly. “Of course. I knew that. Okay then, I’ll call you—Dominic.”
“No,” the same ghoul interrupted calmly. “That’s not how it works.”
Copia blinked. “It’s not?”
“You have to give it time,” the ghoul said, voice soft but firm.
“Oh… oh, yes. Of course. I knew that,” Copia said again, letting out a nervous chuckle. “Just testing you. You passed!”
He tugged at his glove again, then cleared his throat, trying to stand a little straighter—trying to feel like someone worth being followed.
Six Months Later
Copia lay sprawled across his bed, controller in hand, the glow of the TV screen flickering across his face. The rhythmic clicking of buttons was interrupted only by the quiet scurrying of four rats in a cage beside the bed, their tiny claws tapping softly against the plastic floor.
A gentle knock came at the door.
“Come in!” he called, without looking away from the game.
The door creaked open and Cumulus stepped in. She’d been the first ghoul to receive a name, and over time, she'd also become the most comfortable with checking in on him. Copia sat up slightly, pausing the game and flashing a small, crooked smile.
“What can I do you for?”
“We haven’t seen you much the past few days,” she said, leaning against the doorframe.
Copia shrugged, stretching. “Got a new game. Been focused.”
Cumulus nodded, unsurprised. They were learning his rhythms—how he’d disappear into a game for hours, sometimes days, until he finished it. He always came back once the credits rolled.
Her gaze shifted to the cage beside the bed. Curious, she walked over and knelt beside it. Four rats scurried around inside, climbing, sniffing, playing.
“What are these?” she asked.
“My rats!” Copia paused the game entirely, beaming. “War, Conquest, Famine, and Death.”
He looked absolutely delighted.
“They’re cute,” Cumulus said softly.
“You think so? I love rats.” His eyes sparkled, and then he caught himself. “Did you know rats laugh when they’re tickled? You need a special microphone to hear it, though—it’s ultrasonic.” He laughed nervously. “Sorry… I just… I really love rats.”
Cumulus smiled. “It’s okay. I think it’s sweet.”
Copia’s shoulders relaxed. “They’re good company. And they never judge me for playing games all day.”
Cumulus was starting to understand.
One Full Year
Copia sat slouched on the tour bus bench, rhythmically smacking his palm against his thigh. He’d been doing it since they’d come offstage—steady, repetitive, unrelenting. The fabric of his pants had darkened slightly from the bruising beneath.
The bus door hissed open. Mountain was the first ghoul up the steps. He spotted Copia immediately and crossed to him without a word. He knelt down and gently caught Copia’s hand mid-motion.
“You okay, Cardi?” he asked softly.
Copia’s fingers twitched in Mountain’s grip, still trying to complete the motion. “Yeah. I’m just…” He took a breath, slow and uneven. “I’m tired. The crowd was amazing, really—but it was so loud.”
Mountain nodded. He didn’t need more explanation. The ghouls all understood it by now.
Copia was overstimulated.
A second set of boots clomped up the steps—Dewdrop. He took one look at Copia, then immediately rifled through the snack bag without a word. A moment later, he handed over an unwrapped Warhead.
Copia took it with a faint smile and popped it into his mouth.
The sharp, overwhelming sourness snapped his senses into a new direction. It grounded him. His jaw clenched, his face scrunched, but the pressure in his chest started to ease. His hand stilled in Mountain’s.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. He just breathed.
He loved his ghouls. Loved how they’d learned to care for him in the small, quiet ways—when he couldn’t do it for himself. No grand gestures, no fuss. Just exactly what he needed, when he needed it.
Morning, Somewhere in Europe – Tour Stop #12
Copia liked mornings. Not because he enjoyed waking up early—he didn’t—but because mornings meant predictability.
Every day started the same: green tea in his red ceramic mug (the one with the little chip near the handle), buttered toast cut diagonally, and a moment of stillness before the world expected anything from him. That stillness was sacred.
But this morning, as he entered the tiny kitchenette on the tour bus, something was off.
No toast.
His mug was gone.
The tea wasn’t the usual green—it was black. Strong, bitter, wrong.
He stood in the center of the small room, blinking slowly at the cluttered counter. Someone had left their travel mug in place of his, and the bread was gone entirely. The rhythm of the morning was broken, and the dissonance hummed under his skin.
Copia reached out to touch the edge of the unfamiliar mug, then pulled his hand back as if it had burned him.
Footsteps behind him. Cumulus appeared, hair tousled from sleep.
“Morning, Cardi.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared at the mug. His breathing had gone shallow. His hands started to tremble.
She followed his gaze, and her brow furrowed slightly. “What's wrong?”
He tried to answer but no words came out. His throat felt tight. It wasn’t just the mug or the missing toast. It was the wrongness of it all. The deviation. The noise it made inside his mind.
He sat down at the table, fingers pressed tightly together in his lap, shoulders tense and hunched forward. His eyes fixed on nothing.
“Mountain?” Cumulus called softly down the bus.
Within seconds, Mountain appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Cumulus gave him a silent nod. The two exchanged no words after that—they didn’t need to.
Mountain disappeared into the back of the bus. When he returned, he had Copia’s chipped red mug, retrieved from the bunk lounge, filled now with fresh green tea. He also held a small plate—sliced toast from the emergency stash he kept hidden for exactly this kind of situation.
He set both gently in front of Copia without saying a word.
Copia blinked, and something in his posture shifted. Not fully relaxed, but softer. His fingers unclenched slightly as he stared at the familiar mug.
“You kept some?” he asked, voice quiet and slightly shaky.
Mountain nodded. “Yeah. Always do.”
Copia nodded too, eyes shining with quiet relief. He wrapped his hands around the warm mug and exhaled.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Cumulus sat across from him, not talking, not pushing. Just there. Steady and warm.
Eventually, Copia took a bite of the toast. The first piece tasted more like control than food.
Late Afternoon – Soundcheck
The rehearsal space inside the old cathedral echoed louder than Copia expected. Every amp, every mic, every stomp of a boot rang out tenfold, ricocheting off stone walls like a weapon.
They were just supposed to be doing a quick run-through of the second chorus. But the guitars were cranked too high, the synth buzzed off-pitch, and someone had forgotten to replace the cracked overhead light—it flickered in sync with every beat of the kick drum. The flashing sent jagged sparks across Copia’s vision, and the sound was starting to layer into something like knives.
He pressed the mic closer to his mouth, but the feedback shrieked through the monitor, sending a white-hot spike through his skull.
“Shit!” he hissed, stumbling back a step.
He tried to keep going. He tried. But everything was too loud, too bright, too much.
Someone brushed past him, accidentally bumping his shoulder.
That did it.
Copia flinched hard and turned away, stumbling off to the side of the stage. His breathing was shallow, hands fluttering at his sides—rapid, unfocused stims. His eyes were squeezed shut, face pinched.
The world was cracking apart around him, and it didn’t make any sense.
Then—
Click.
The synth stopped.
Thunk.
The guitar amps powered down.
A shadow stepped between him and the worst of the flickering light. Cumulus. She didn’t touch him—just stood there, creating a barrier.
Dewdrop was crouched by the main light switch near the entrance, fiddling with the dimmer. The flickering finally stopped.
Aether was already by the mixing board, muting channels one by one. No more sound. Just silence.
Mountain crossed the space with quiet footsteps and stood beside Copia, arms loose at his sides. He didn’t speak. He just existed nearby—solid, safe, unshakable.
Copia slowly sank down to the edge of the platform, hands now pulling at the cuffs of his coat. His breathing started to even out. He didn’t speak, but his shoulders stopped quaking.
None of the ghouls said anything. No questions. No fuss.
They just made the world quiet again.
After a few minutes, Copia rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and gave a hoarse laugh.
“Well,” he muttered, “that was… dramatic.”
“You don’t have to apologize for your brain,” Cumulus said gently.
He looked up at her, and her tone grounded him further—soft but unwavering.
“I wasn’t—” He started to say he wasn’t apologizing, but realized maybe he had been, in his own way. He nodded instead.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, and meant it.
Backstage, Pre-Show
Copia stood near the edge of the green room, trying to hide how badly his fingers were twitching. He’d already adjusted his gloves three times. He smoothed down the lapels of his coat, then tugged them again. His hands didn’t want to stop moving, but he was trying—trying—to keep it subtle.
He hated how obvious he felt.
The pre-show chaos always crawled under his skin: stagehands rushing, lights flickering, last-minute wardrobe checks. People asking questions. Touching him.
His hands flapped once—just once—and he yanked them back down quickly.
He didn’t notice Dewdrop watching from the other side of the room.
Fifteen minutes later, just as the crew was calling five minutes to stage, Dew walked up and held something out in his hand.
Copia blinked. “What is it?”
“Something I made,” Dew said, tone casual.
It was small—a little black leather keychain-looking thing. Copia took it, turning it over. It had a looped strap, thick thread embroidery, and little notches cut into one side. He ran his thumb across the notches automatically. It had texture. Pressure. It clicked in his head immediately.
“A stim?” he asked.
Dew just shrugged. “Call it whatever you want.”
Copia looked down at it again. The stitching was tight. Handmade. Thoughtful.
“You made this?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Dew said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve seen you trying not to do your hand thing before shows. Figured this might help instead of, y'know… holding it in.”
Copia didn’t speak for a second.
He clutched the stim loop in his hand, fingers gently pulling and twisting the leather cord. His hand still wanted to move—but now it had something to do.
“I didn’t think you noticed,” Copia murmured.
Dew gave him a half-smirk. “We notice. We just don’t say anything unless we can do something about it.”
Copia looked down at the stim again, then slipped it into a hidden pocket in his coat lining, right next to where his thumb naturally rested.
He smiled—small, private, and entirely real.
“Thank you,” he said, voice quieter now, but stronger.
Late Night – Hotel Rooftop
Copia sat alone on the rooftop terrace, still in partial costume. The paint had smudged along his cheekbone, one glove off, the other forgotten in his lap. The night was cool, quiet—the kind of quiet he needed, the kind that didn’t expect anything from him.
His legs bounced beneath the table, and he tugged at the collar of his coat, fidgeting with the seam where the lining met the shell. He hummed softly, off-key and repetitive. He hadn't realized he was doing it until it looped for the sixth time.
The mask had been on too long today.
Smiles that didn’t feel real. Eye contact that ached. Conversation with no space to stim, to rock, to breathe.
He dropped his head into his hands, pressing his palms against his brow.
Too much. Too much. Too much.
He didn’t hear the door open.
Footsteps padded across the concrete. Lighter than boots. Softer than dress shoes. A warm presence settled down on the bench across from him.
Cumulus.
She didn’t speak.
He glanced up, his mouth opened slightly, like he was going to apologize. But she shook her head before he could.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to talk.”
He gave her a weak smile, his hand flapping once without thinking.
Cumulus mirrored the gesture—slow, calm, intentional.
Copia froze.
Then he let out a sound—half laugh, half exhale—and did it again. She mirrored it again.
It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t pity. It was permission.
His smile deepened, and then—without shame—he let himself stim. Hands flapping lightly. Shoulders rocking. Legs bouncing as they wanted to. He hummed again, and this time it felt okay.
“Thank you,” he said at last, the words soft and reverent.
“You never have to perform for us,” Cumulus replied. “You never did.”
Copia looked out at the city skyline, the lights twinkling like distant stars. “I always thought I had to be... polished. Like Nihil. Like Papa.”
“You’re not Nihil,” she said gently. “And thank Satan for that.”
He laughed. A real one, this time.
“I’m just... me.”
“Exactly.”
He leaned back on the bench, letting his head fall against the cold stone wall behind them. The wind picked up slightly. From somewhere below, faint music echoed—a street performer’s violin, playing something slow and haunting.
The rooftop door opened again.
One by one, the ghouls trickled out.
Mountain brought a blanket. Aether had a thermos of tea. Dew plopped down cross-legged beside Copia without asking. Rain leaned against the railing, humming softly in time with Copia’s tune. Swiss, of course, made a dramatic entrance and settled with theatrical flair—but even he didn’t speak above a whisper.
They surrounded him—not to fix, not to question, not to expect—but just to be.
And for the first time in a long time, Copia didn’t feel like he had to mask a single part of himself.
He was loved exactly as he was.