#batim chapter 5

The rage fueled his return. Like a monster gripping onto their life by sheer force of anger, he rose from the ink like a shark torpedoing out from water, launching forward with bared teeth and lurching limbs flailing. He tore himself out of the dark puddles, furious and reckless. 

That fury propelled him further, drove him to find one of the fire axes around the studio, and replace his face. After applying the appropriate markings, he donned it, and his hand, still tremoring with hate and anger, clenched the ax tighter. 

He was going to find that insolent, mocking thing, and cut its face off. If it believed itself to be such a perfect model of his Lord, then why not wear that as his mask? The rage within his heart quelled for a moment at the thought of such righteous violence, letting him ease the shaking of his hands around the ax. A weapon of great power… yes, it would do nicely. How he yearned to sink it into the rotten heart of that imposter. 

Patience, Sammy. You will receive your moment. For you are loyal, and that shambling horror that the imposter turned into will face its due. 

Sammy waited. He peered through the hammered, wooden planks holding him within the confessional of his own making. He had instructed his flock to entomb him within, so that he may dwell on his mistake and find penance in the Holy of Holies. 

While there, he sharpened his ax, cut his fingers on its blade and let His blessing heal him, over and over. Those searchers and the butchers, he could not comprehend how they hated the immortality that their Master had bestowed upon them, begging and pleading to be struck out and utterly erased. 

Never. Never for him, the Prophet of the Demon. 

He would come back to fulfill his mission. 

And now, he was filled with purpose. Yes, yes, this must be why His Master was dissatisfied with him. He did not want the Copy as an offering, no, not alive. He wanted it slaughtered. Or maybe….

Sammy shuddered at the heretical thoughts that conflated his mind. His hand clenched the ax harder. 

Or maybe what Sammy believed to be an idol, a false god, was the true one, and the one he followed was trying to keep Sammy from discovering his folly. 

He clutched at his mask, trying to make sense of things. 

A growl built in his throat. He could see a boat in the distance, the silhouette of the Copy. 

Sammy knew one thing was true - regardless of what was the true reality, he would destroy it; destroy it for tearing away his sure footing, leaving him betrayed and abandoned. 

He would rip that smile off its face. Cut it off. The face. 

And wear it. 

His Master would be pleased. 

He would become the copy; and remove the one that did not follow the Demon. 

After all, imitation is the best form of flattery.