#a.headcanons

Absinthe sighs, leaning his head back against the wall of the confessional booth. He's almost about to call it a day, head home- with the few usual sinners thinking acknowledging their wandering eyes and greed might suddenly let them free of this place- not realizing all they're doing is keeping themselves and Absinthe in the chapel, a prison of faith in a prison of the metaphysical.

They wonder, for a moment, if it's worth all of this, fingers running polished blue sandstone beads slowly. That moment is enough time for the other half of the booth to fill again- someone large, clinking metal against metal. It's not the biting scent of smoke meeting his nose that tells him who this is- but the clinging scent of copper- blood and fur. October shuts the door behind him.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned. My last confession was..." He laughs. The sound of a lighter clicking open as he sparks the end of a cigarette. "Mm, Longer ago than you've been alive, father."

"That's quite alright... Forgiveness is for all who seek it." Absinthe responds- willing his voice not to shake- smoke slips through the slats, hazy and dreamlike. October's voice rumbles in response.

"I've got a lot of dirt on my soul, Father, weight I've carried a long, long time." It doesn't sound genuine, his cadence makes Sin's skin crawl. "I don't know if I've got the strength to let it go."

"We can... certainly try."

"I killed a man. It was in self-defense, you know- I was but a boy, He was so much bigger than me. I shot him, right between the eyes. Watched him tip over dead into the floor beside me." Breathing is difficult, under smoke, under the weight of words beside him.

"Well-"

"But that's something god forgives, right Father? He forgave your transgressions, so I- why, I could be borderline holy too, right?" He cuts Absinthe off, shifts in the booth beside him, there's a faint glint of metal- a knife, turned in skillful hands. "God forgave you, time and again for the blood on your hands. And God sent you a savior, oh, he sent us all a savior. That Raziel fellow... All his fancy ideas... salvation."

"What do you want, Roulette-"

"Shhh, shh! This is confidential, Father! Shame on you!" Absinthe winces- a violent strike against the thick wood of the confessional- scratching sounds following. "Shh. You're here to absolve me of my sins. But I know more about your little... connection to Raz than you think, hm? Something in you needs something in him, like light needs darkness, good needs evil- god needs the devil. I'd have called it love, if I thought either of you were capable of it.... Can ya love, Father?"

Absinthe's chest tightens- the screech of metal on wood grating his ears. "Mr. Roulette I need you to-"

"No, No, you can't- you don't, you won't let yourself. But there's a tell. You a gambling man, Father?"

"N...No."

"I am, you know. Everyone has a tell. Even the ones bred like dogs to hide it. Raz gets his dander up, when you come up. And oh, don't you do the same? And you play your little cat and mouse, do your song and dance at the commune, forcing us all into your little quartile." The giant adjusts. "You two really should just fuck like you used to and get it out of the way. Mutually assured destruction in the bedroom instead of at the barrel's end."

"How do you-"

"Know? I'm smarter than any of you bother giving me credit for. A big, brutish thing with a tendency to listen. And I know people, through and through. The tension.... delicious." Absinthe grits his teeth, hand shifting to the door handle of the confessional as more smoke drifts in, hazy and blue. "And now, Father you assign me a penance."

"October."

"Mm, what's that? Oh, a few hail Marys, and to put myself down like a hound dog? That's what you want to suggest, isn't it, Father Capone?"

"I want you to leave." His voice comes out more firmly. October laughs. the sound is cruel, like a hyena tossed a meal- bone chimes in the wind. Absinthe knows evil, he has exorcised demons since he could comprehend scripture.

October is something else entirely, a laughing curr a thin, wooden wall away.

And then he's gone. Silence- the sound of the church doors closing.

He sits, in silence for a moment- shifts to move out of his half of the confessional- to read what the brute had carved in.

Grasping tentacles, and words, in italian.

"Abbracciate i Nuovi Dei."

"Amen." Comes the hiss from behind him, October leaning over his shoulder- wild eyed and grinning. "You have a good afternoon, Father. I'll see you at home..."

And then he's gone for real- Absinthe unsure of what's come to pass-

He remembers the stories. Those who looked upon Angels at their truest driven mad. What of those, instead, that look upon the face of God?

In some small part he is thankful to have forgone the flamboyancy of the rest of the week- sunburn. A sunburn had sent him back to his typical garb, and now, sat in the darkness of the fire station, with Hell howling outside the windows- Absinthe sits in a quiet corner- his rosary lit by the thin orange flame of his lighter. The Messiah sits crucified in miniature, glittering blue stone once a comfort now feels... a mockery. That, high above, was not what he had been taught- but something so grand could be nothing but a God.

His eyes screw shut, and he unshoulders his shotgun, blue eyes combing ornate carvings, silver and ivory blended by the skilled hands of an artisan. fingers trace the familiar, his ears trying to pick voices from outside between the wailing of the storm. For a tick, their fingers idle on the trigger, the barrels of the sawed-off facing them.

Click.

Empty. As he'd always kept it.

It's not like it could kill them anyway. It's not even that they particularly want to die. There's a lot to leave behind, isn't there?

a flock of prattling sinners convinced they're righteous? A shitty bed in a group home, the prying eyes and uncertainty, they don't know us. you don't know us.

No. There's plenty, plenty to stay on the level for. Even if that thing is little more than Joei. He spares a glance to her, asleep, despite it all.

They suck their teeth, pushing to their feet to watch the rest of the people sheltering alongside them with silent interest. His head aches, heavy, sick, the humidity already sticky against sun-scorched pale skin.

Click.

He turns his shotgun in his hands again. The weight of the shotgun shells in his pocket is more than the gun itself, now. But among the ache in his skull, the isolation finds something else. A memory.

"Abel, it may hurt now, but one day, you will be tested, these are to ensure you are ready." The platitude falls on deaf ears, a boy sobbing out that the needles to skin hurt his spine- that the grip of the other priests on too-thin limbs hurts to bruising. "One day God will call upon you, you will know when that time comes."

And then they are tumbling- a spigot turned on and spilling freely- Oh, now he remembers. "Yeah. Well, Fulci's 'god's chosen' or whatever it is Father Savini insists on. I thought His servants were supposed to be humble."

"His servants are. Fulci's not exactly Godly, right, Abel? Caught him in the cathouse almost as often as I've seen him in a pew. Wandering eyes. Hunger for the sins of the flesh. God was looking the other way when the devil tucked him into Savini's prodigial cradle."

"Can you two stop nattering on, I'm trying to pray... Transport A, report status, we're approaching the former limits of Huntsville."

"Communication seems completely stable, clearing the city limits and then turning offroad."

"Copy. Myself, Esposito and De Luca are en-route... Have you two had your fun at my expense? We do have an assignment."

"Sure, whatever. Just drop the high and mighty shit, Abel, God'll take the rest of us before He has any sort of special calling for you."

Absinthe laughs. The sound sudden, odd- cutting the silence slightly. He holds up hands for a moment, to insist he's alright as eyes shift his way. God certainly did take the rest of you, didn't he Esposito? He turns the shotgun in his grasp again.

"FULCI OPEN THIS DOOR."

"Don't- Abel- Abel leave it. You know the sigils the the the- THE ONES ON THE DOORS ON THE DRIVE IN- YOU KNOW IT."

"I suppose I do." One hand holds the bloodied back of his head- fingers sticky- De Luca holds a splintered off table leg, staring with horror as metal teeth easily puncture the flesh of Abel's left hand- a sigil scrawled in wobbly fingers on the entry door. "That was terribly rude of you, Father De Luca." He murmurs. "I know as much as you do about what's happening." The screams for aide, to be allowed in go quiet- slick sounds of blood and offal grinding against each other replacing them. "And you would kill me?"

"A-Abel."

"Manda a Dio i miei saluti, Padre De Luca." The report of his shotgun is sharp and sudden- And when the sun crests the sky once more, those once numbering fourteen now sits at one. There's only one mess to clean up, Father De Luca thrown into the cellar of a house long-abandoned, stripped of his supplies, belongings- And when the survivor of the night's massacre is found, it will be in the jacket emblazoned with the number eight, the one he'd worn since his ascension, emblazoned with a seventeen, burned to ash. And it will be on the edges of life, blood-loss and head trauma greedily stripping away neurons and memories in the quiet of that empty house.

Abel Fulci will die here. But like rot, like a virus, he'll spread in whatever surfaces to host him.

It's what the Brothers taught.

Those who looked upon the angels were driven mad. Killed in their foolishness. He who mocked the messenger lay rotten under a house reduced to urban legend.

Absinthe had seen the visage of God, twisted and awesome- and he had not been driven mad.

"Father Capone." He's torn from his reverie by the voice of one of the townspeople, hushing them gently as they motion to Joei asleep beside them. "Sorry- Um. could... could we pray together?"

"Of course. Come- sit." The change is subtle, oh, it's barely there. He leads the prayer as he always has.

His words reach now to a different God.

And he realizes just the same, if she still lives-

Interpreters/'Stones'

What Absinthe is, a child selectively chosen from parents paired off with intention of the use of their offspring for the purpose through pressure from the church and the Brothers themselves, only to have the child removed and raised under the cult.

Starting from age 7, the child is taught scriptures, exorcisms, and rituals in other cultures for purification of evil. Symbols pertaining to each of these is tattooed into their skin each time a portion is memorized, these placements are blacked out as the Stone ages, and moved around, leading to the appearance of a stained glass portrait with heavy, dark lines, most of their chests are left untouched, a single pale expanse among the full coverage, intended to allow for easier preservation of the body upon the death of the Stone.

At 15 they take their vows as a priest, and live by them for the remainder of their lives, their training as a combatant starts now as well, a rigorous exercise routine and training in hand-to-hand scenarios, Stones are raised as living encyclopedias of demonic influence and the forces of evil- and due to their knowledge, are taught, predominantly, to protect themselves in the event of an exorcism gone wrong, creating fierce, violent combatants who prioritize only their own survival over all else.

Interpreters are born to the church, serve the church, then die in the church, they are kept from worldly desires and sheltered from 'reality' outside of their work, knowing only the evils of the world outside their religion, instead of all the good it and its people can offer.

They are often imparted with a more inflated sense of ego, and there is typically only one assigned to each grouping of exorcists, given the length of time required to train each one, they are a difficult resource to spare.

Absinthe's chapter focused largely on demonic possessions within catholicism, hence his markings of angels, saints, and eurocentric patterns. These change depending on the Stone, and their purpose within their grouping.

Unlike others within the Brothers of Dust, who are within it by choice, Stones are property, and are quickly retrieved by Listeners if they make an attempt to flee or leave the church's grasp.

Unlike the rest of the brothers of dust, due to their unique purpose of being born in the church, some Stones are AFAB.

Brothers/Footsoldiers

Potentially born outside of the church, a Brother of Dust is an exorcist and priest trained in combat and the destruction of evil. They are all predominantly AMAB, and while transition is (reluctantly) permitted for those already within the ranks, those joining are expected to be AMAB.

Taught to perform exorcisms and to hunt things that are potentially dangerous to humanity, the existence of the supernatural is a potential the Brothers of Dust believe in completely, and that their work is required to protect the greater good.

Not isolated from the world like Stones, Footsoldiers are often priests with their own congregations, permitted to marry (with people the church has screened, and approve of) so long as they observe their vow of chastity.

They make up the largest bulk of the people in a 8-13 man crew, only one Interpreter, one Medic, and one Fixer deployed for each grouping, the rest made up of Footsoldiers.

Medics

A Footsoldier with further medical training, for potential injury. they are skilled in field medicine, are typically doctors beyond this, and hold employment in high-ranking positions in hospitals maintained by the church and it's donations.

Fixer/Listeners

The eponymous 'handlers' of the brothers of dust, they tend to be the unofficial 'heads' of their chapters.

Not priests but still connected to the church, a Fixer is typically assigned to a crew to ensure they move quietly and unnoticed through the 'real' world outside of their training, typically assigned to ensure the safety and recovery of a Stone in the event that one goes missing, or AWOL, a Fixer is also deployed to scenes that go wrong with backing of money and the law to keep the aftermath under wraps.