#corpses tw

Once the clock hits two am, Hubert found himself with a fierce headache. The pain at first started behind his eyes then gradually it got worse like someone was splitting his skull in half to root inside. It hadn't helped too well either the day he had was long and tedious, that he's also running on fumes to boot.

Right now he should be asleep but with the amount of work on his desk piling up it's far from the end. So tensely he flipped through a dozen folders scattered messily across the surface. All of them he'd already seen many times, got uncomfortably familiarized with and felt utterly lost in.

Hubert regretted staying up late for this but pushes past the exhaustion and plucked out from the pile, a particular file; a nearly year old case. Despite being considered as one of the 'younger' case, it did get pushed aside by more cases that continued piling in. Now as his hand grazes the folder, he's half tempted to ignore it, knowing full on well there's not a single thing he can do to help. Once he did try only to have it blow up in his face.

While everyone else moved on, he lets the remorse and guilt devour him alive from the inside out.

A fool was he to think such an ostentatious plan would ever work? That the Toppats wouldn't retaliate.

Hell! He gifted them a new chief, by total accident mind you, so hellbent on ensuring anyone affiliated in the military lives totally unbearable. It hadn't helped that the thief is influential, known worldwide to be cleverly conniving with this sort of unnatural luck on his side.

People understandably blame Hubert for the horrible mess they're in. Whether they say it directly to him or behind his back, his reputation never really bounced back. As so the position of General he vied for no doubt flushed down the drain. Nearly costing him his current role because of the massive fuck up.

Thankfully they choose otherwise, giving a scrap of mercy, pathetic as it was to receive and clearly it was conditional. It didn't stop them from treating him like a joke that fell flat afterward, Hubert pinched at the bridge of his nose rather hard, and exhales shakily once then twice before he reluctantly opens up the folder with a flick in the wrist.

Set in front of him are graphically detailed snapshots of a targeted attack, there was no need. The clan struck down a military plane passing the jungle, delivering shipments to people afflicted by the conflict. Although it wasn't the worst attack they've observed so far since this conflict started, Hubert can't stop the pained wince from appearing on his face.

When they found the burnt remnants of the plane two weeks later, tangled by the jungle tree's thick, miles long vines in mid motion, using them as a makeshift safety net. But it hadn't spared the aircraft entirely from the harsh decent, tearing off a wing, crumpling the other and clogged the engines up with an unknown sticky material.

So Hubert shuffled the photo of the plane behind another, a dozen in total involving the untimely deaths. Two bodies seared to a charred crisp. One gotten grossly fused into their seat it'd proved incapable of letting go. Their skin melted down to taut muscle and brittle bones. Carefully they had to remove the entire chair with the body still in it, and as they managed to strip off the uniform to saw the gold star medallions etched deeply in the blood red muscle.

Whereas the second victim, the soldier they assigned for extra protection, they assumed to be standing when the incident occurred, is found laying near the cockpit. Their body twisted in an unnatural angle, limbs broken and bones poking out split flesh. A crudely taken close up reveals the concave head as half the skull brutishly shoved in.

People were taken aback, couldn't stop from puking at the atrocity and Hubert's relieved to have an iron will to stomach it. He knew both of the deceased in varying depths and their names are written somewhere in the files, returning them back to the folder.

Then his mood sours at the images on the cockpit. At the minimal damage. The thin layer of a soapy foam substance coating the walls and control board. What's more is the missing third victim, the pilot nowhere to be seen yet people are quick in assuming he must've been flung out the front windows, his body seemingly lost to the jungle.

However for Hubert, nothing made sense to him and demanded desperately that they at least do a through search. They did give it a day, not even a full one, just for the sake of closing the case quicker. Since everyone bar him settled on the likely idea that the native wildlife probably discovered the third body way before they received news on the crash and arrived on the isolated island.

What a sick thought.

Last thing Hubert wants is to imagine the pilot's soft cherub face contorted in horror, watching helplessly as animals devour him. As sharp claws hungrily slashing him open, then pull out vulnerable organs, pulsating in huge paws. Teeth bigger then a humans, nibbling on and sucking out bone marrow while its prickly tongue greedily slurped up blood. Torn from limb to limb, body pieces scattered over the land, a needle in the hay pile.

A choked hiss escapes the old man. Clammy hands grasps at his chest, nails embedded in the shirt, heart pounding rhythmically like a hurricane underneath his ribcage. Every single time he tried to close his eyes, flashes of blood and guts awaits him. Screams filled his ears along with the crackling of fire and roars of cannibalistic hunger.

In an frenzied burst of energy and emotion, Hubert hauls himself off the chair, taking it nearly with him in the motion. Letting go is equally abrupt, dropping the chair onto the floor as he stumbles over to the counter. An old coffeemaker resides, empty, beckoning for a refill.

So he brews a new batch. Plain, bitter and black. Nothing special. It should be enough to make it through the day which remained a mystery as to how he stayed even remotely functional. Now with an empty cup in hand Hubert watches the clock tick by and it'll be morning soon.

In the back of an off-duty vehicle and right behind the passenger seat with two officers of much higher say rank up in front, Hubert stared at his watch on his left wrist, tapping the glass in anxious repetition. Finally after spending a good six hours from noon to five pm, they're just now returning to base from what's likely going to end up being the next polarizing thing.

It had involved an influential politician and his family. The man in question was alright although Hubert never met him, only heard of from through the grape vines. A shame it is as he was really young, in his mid thirties and barely stepped a toe into his career half a decade ago.

Kid could've gone to great places if it hadn't been for a small gaggle of Toppats accosted him in the dead of a Friday night. They held the young man at gunpoint and by excessive force made him empty his bank accounts or as much as this can be remotely fruitful for them. Then forced him into his car, drove to his house and held the entire family, his wife, mother, young children, hostage since late that Friday night until early on Sunday morning.

"God… Did you see what they did to those poor children?"

Suddenly and unwanted the wind beating against the windows stops as the car drives up to a light and the passenger in the front, his gravely voice cutting the tension like a knife.

"You're telling me" The driver mumbles in kind. "A whole family massacred"

This was a message that crossed the line yet made a point. No longer would the Toppats direct their wrath solely at the government anymore but towards civilians unwillingly thrown in the middle.

Dread washed over Hubert, causing him to unclench and clench his fists. Inevitably the news will get hold of this, asking questions that demanded answers to while airing out the unthinkable crime across the country's television screens.

Maybe they'll have tact to be respectful to the victims. Hubert can only hope. Nobody should have to die because of his mistakes.

Then the car picks up as it takes a right turn once the light turns green. Left ignored in the backseat, Hubert sits stiffly upright, his hands folded on his lap. Thoughts running a mile a minute while their voices fizzles to the background.

Seen this as a blessing in trauma inflicted disguise since his hearing had been on the steady decline for years. Better then to hear them openly discussing death on a Monday afternoon, normal as it can be.

The peace is disrupted by an obscenely loud cackling sound from the car's radio set only for the military.

"Toppat aircraft seen descending into the Earth's orbit"

Abruptly the conversation dies on the spot and Hubert immediately perks up, sliding the upper half of his body to better hear.

"Struck a military grade plane in passing, causing significant damage to the plane" The broadcaster's voice spoke in urgency, a mix of concern and confusion. A gasp from the passenger when the driver accidentally pressed his foot flat to the floor of the gas pedal, correcting it with the breaks, "The pod then proceeded to crash into an office building on a base stationed in the north east district"

The motion made his hands grip the seat of the passenger's leaning forward, not by his own choice, waiting for an explanation.

Odysseus lies awake in bed at night, thoughts filled with his encounter with Circe and his earlier encounter with Poseidon. He tries to close his eyes to get a good rest after over nine days of keeping himself awake so the windbag wouldn't be opened. He tries not to think of how he failed, his weary eyes too tired to open. He dreamt of seeing Penelope and Telemachus but never being able to reach them and hold them close to him.

But every time he closes his eyes, all he can hear are screams.

Screams of 'Captain!' as they get drowned by Poseidon or smashed by the Cyclops club. He watched as more of his men died under his command, while he was unable to do anything to stop it from happening. From six hundred men to forty-three men left in the span of a few months or years — he can't seem to remember how long they have been traveling on the seas. Polites was the one who kept track of the date, but they lost track of it when he passed away.

In his nightmares, he would be standing before Athena while five hundred fifty-seven of his men were behind the goddess of wisdom. Polites would be the more prominent one, standing beside Athena while holding the infant in his arms that Odysseus threw off the wall because of a prophecy Zeus had told him.

Athena would stare him down while never saying a word. Her eyes are blank of pupils but glowing brightly, like the other gods he has encountered. She is not in the form he sees when he just wants to spend time with her. He sees the goddess of wisdom with the same expression on her face when they argue while on Quick Thought. He doesn't see a friend, but a mentor, who was disappointed by the choices he made. He sees a goddess who is disappointed that he is not the warrior of the mind she made him to be.

His men would reach out to him, hands outstretched, while their expressions were full of sorrow and fury. They are the corpses of his men, their bodies dripping with blood. Some of the men have their bodies mangled and torn, their organs barely falling off their bodies. Others have their head crushed or part of it missing, exposing the brains, and missing body parts due to the Cyclops club. Bone sticking out of the skin, while the body part is twisted beyond imaginable. The drowned men were dripping wet, their bodies wrinkled and bloated. Their skin is in a sickly blueish-grey color, the veins more evident due to how pale the body is. Some of them are pierced with the wood from the ship. 

Their screams would always reach his ears, and echo in his eardrums. They do nothing but scream at him, repeating 'Captain! Captain!' are unceasing. Sometimes they would say 'Why did you let the Cyclops kill us?' or 'Why didn't you kill the Cyclops, Captain? We could have gotten home if you did.' They say it with sorrow and fury, tears streaming down their face.

They would grab him by the arm and be dragged towards them. Their ghostly hands were all over his body and dragged him under and under until his body burned and burned. It burns him; it hurts him.

And this pain is excruciating.

It's more pain than he had ever felt in his entire life.

He drowns in this pain and he screams louder than he ever has, his throat hurting as he strains it.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts—

His eyes fly open, a cut-off scream escaping his lips as he sits up from the bed while sweat drips on his forehead. He is breathing heavily while feeling his throat close up.

Odysseus looks around in a daze at an unfamiliar room, wondering where he is until remembers that Circe let him and his men stay at her palace for a day or two when she notices his haggard appearance and looks as though he is about to pass out at any moment. She had told him to rest even though he had protested he was fine. His protests did not work. Not when he almost fell to the floor after a step or two.

A sigh escapes from him while running a hand through his hair. He looks outside and presses his lips into a thin line when he notices it's still dark outside. Although he could already see the sun beginning to rise from a distance.

He knows he only got a few hours of sleep. It's not enough to recover the hours of sleep he lost while trying to keep the windbag closed, but he knows it's enough for him to not be dead on his feet when he and his crew visit the underworld to look for the prophet who can help them get back home.

He does not get off the bed to prepare yet. He is still too tired, too exhausted to get his body to move. His mind is too tired to think this early. His body still feels sluggish, slower than he'd like when he moves. It is unbecoming of him to be this slow when he fought in a war that lasted for a decade.

He looks down at his hands visibly shaking. He wonders whether it's from the lack of sleep he got or the nightmare he had. He shakily exhales while grabbing the blankets on top of him and moves them away. Odysseus moves slowly to the side, letting his feet touch the cold floor. His hands are now holding the mattress and he uses it to push himself up.

His body feels heavy, weighing in the exhaustion from everything that has happened so far. He fears he won't be able to come back home to his family if Poseidon continues to go after them and hopes the prophet will help him return home.

If the prophet won't be able to give him answers, he'll try harder to go back home. He'll do anything to go back home to see Penelope and Telemachus again.

Thinking about them gives him a small burst of energy, just barely enough to keep him going for the rest of the time before they set sail.

Odysseus starts preparing for the journey to the underworld, both mentally and physically. Seeing the ghosts of their previous crew will haunt his remaining crew and he needs to be the strong one for them to get through it all. He is the Captain and their King, after all.

He breathes deeply, a repeating motion of inhaling and exhaling to calm himself before leaving the room to meet up with Circe.

A/N: not related to the fanfic at all, but my glasses broke while i was pre-writing this—

anyways sdjfj here is my entry for whumptober 2024 day 26! i struggled writing this because i debated whether this should take place when odyseeus is already reunited with penelope and telemachus or before The Underworld song, but i realized i didn't know how to write penelope so i chose the second one.

to any EPIC: The Musical fans reading this, hi!! this is my second time writing for this fandom and i would appreciate if you also read my previous whumptober 2024 entry (day 25) since it's also an EPIC: The Musical fanfic. that one however takes place when odysseus is still stuck at calypso's island. it's kinda dark so be warned and read the beginning notes to check the warnings that contain in the fic before continuing reading it.

Theo threw out his hand towards the enemy army. The magic swept towards the soldiers, taking the form of a cloud of flame. Theo could hardly hear their screams over the rushing in his ears. This Vessel had more magic than he had ever worked with before. Theo closed his eyes as his limbs trembled and his skin burned hotter and hotter. 

He couldn’t control it. 

But if he didn’t give it somewhere to go it would kill him. 

He screamed as the magic burned up the side of his body. He had to act now.

Just as the magic was about to overwhelm him he released it all at once, a wall of flames shooting out from him in all directions. His vision went white as the remainder of the magic rushed through his body to find its freedom, no longer content to be bound by flesh. 

He collapsed to the ground, chest heaving as his skin cooled, limbs twitching and fingers tingling. His ears rang and his vision was blurry. He took one deep breath, then another, each one filled with the stench of smoke and smoldering flesh. That’s when he realized that his hand was still on the hilt of the knife buried in the Vessel’s chest.

Theo scrambled back with a cry, bloody hands shaking. He couldn’t look away from the corpse of the Vessel he had just killed, his glazed eyes staring blankly at the sky. This was wrong. Wrong. He couldn’t think, couldn’t remember why he had killed that man. His mind was muddled, his thoughts scattered. 

He couldn’t think, he couldn’t think.

“You’re okay, Theo,” a voice said. Theo spun around. There was a man crouched before him, his clothes dark and black beard closely trimmed. Theo’s eyes caught on the peak of a tattoo at his wrists. 

The man was a Reaper. But he couldn’t for the life of him remember what a Reaper was. 

“Who-who are you?” Theo asked. 

“Simeon. We’re friends, don’t you remember?”

Theo shook his head, eyes drifting back to the corpse. To the knife in its chest. The knife he had put there. A lump gathered in his throat.  

“Are you alright, Theo?” Simeon asked. 

Theo burst into sobs. “No,” he finally managed to choke out, “I just murdered a man.”

Simeon shook his head. “No, Theo, you’re confused,” he said softly. “That thing you killed was a monster, not a person.”

Theo stared at the corpse, his brow wrinkling. The body looked human.

“You always get confused after the magic, remember? I have your medicine right here, it’ll help.” Simeon pulled a pouch out of his jacket and loosened the drawstring. Fear slammed into Theo. The medicine was bad. He couldn’t remember why, his thoughts were still too jumbled, but he knew that he didn’t want to take it.   

“I-I don’t want it. Please. I don’t want to take the medicine,” Theo said, panic building.  

The Reaper sighed. “This is why I hate it when you use a lot of magic,” he muttered. He moved towards Theo. 

“No!” Theo yelled, throwing out his hands in front of him instinctively. To his shock, weak sparks shot from his fingers, the final dregs of the dead Vessel’s magic. Simeon cursed and leaped forward, pinning Theo to the ground. He was larger than Theo, stronger too. Theo thrashed around as the last of the magic fizzled out, trying desperately to get away from this man. 

“No! No! Please Simeon please I don’t want it please!” Theo screamed. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He didn’t want it, he didn’t want it. His memories were coming back, he knew that once he ingested the drug he would be helpless. Then, Simeon would hurt him. 

Simeon dug his fingers into the sides of Theo’s jaw. His grip was painfully tight and he forced Theo’s mouth open. Theo let out a scream of terror. He gagged as the Reaper poured a handful of the bitter white powder into his mouth and shut it. 

Within seconds a wave of calm washed over him and Theo’s whole body relaxed, his limbs heavy. 

“There you go, that’s better,” Simeon said. Theo smiled up at him, dazed. He couldn’t remember what he had been so upset about before. Whatever it was, it mustn't have been important.  Simeon ran a thumb along Theo’s cheek. “I’m here, Theo, you’re safe with me,” he said softly. Theo yawned, suddenly incredibly sleepy. 

Simeon helped him to his feet and Theo swayed dizzily. The Reaper caught him against his chest and Theo giggled. 

“I feel funny,” he slurred. 

Simeon ran a hand through his hair and Theo melted into the touch. 

“You’re so cute when you’re high on the smoke plum,” Simeon said affectionately, ruffling Theo’s hair. Theo looked up at him with adoration. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Theo nodded lazily. He leaned against his Reaper as they made their way back to camp, all thoughts of the man he killed forgotten in the haze of the drug.