#damageddeity

From there, it is routine. The coffee filter is set up and flicked on, and the bitter smell of cheap beans rapidly fills his tiny kitchen. It will take about ten minutes to fill the jug, so he slips into the shower.

The house is surprisingly devoid of the dark, oppressive presence of his God. Though these days, God really feels like a bit of a stretch. Necrophades may have been born in divinity but he has been bound to mortal flesh, and Cy realised long ago that there is nothing divine about a God capable of human error. Cy resents him, really. Resents their arrangement, resents that he left everything he knew behind because Necrophades had been whispering in his ear. He thinks he might even hate him. It has been festering in his gut, beneath his skin - caustic and bubbling. He finishes his shower and dries off, methodical and yet barely paying attention. His thoughts are elsewhere. By the time he pads into his work room, clean, dry, dressed, it has been 30 minutes since he woke up. 20 since he got out of bed. He clutches his coffee like a lifeline as he falls down into his computer chair, tired gaze taking in a progress bar. 98%. He started it what, 4 hours ago? This is good. He's making the software smaller, bit by bit.

5 hours of working pass in the blink of an eye. Cy has always been like this, been able to lose himself in a task until time loses all meaning. He fixates, obsesses, and his concentration usually only ends when it is forcibly broken. This time, it is Necrophades. He puts a bony hand on Cy's shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh punishingly. Pain flares, but Cy does little more than grunt at him. He wants something - a fight? "What." There is nothing affectionate in Cy's tone, not anymore. He doesn't even bother with being polite. "Insolent brat." Necrophades is suitably offended. It makes Cy smile. "You will respect me."

Cy finally looks away from his monitor, sharp features illuminated in green light. "I will not." Cy narrows his eyes then, daring Necrophades to take the bait. Rise to it like a human would. He does. There's a blur of moment and pain flares in Cy's jaw, head snapping to the side. He barely processes it before he's dragged up by his hair. There's magic in the air, thick and volatile. It's all around him, ready, and he can't help it, he laughs. "You disgust me." Cy sneers, because it’s true, because the illusion the Necrophades is anything but a parody of divinity has been shattered now.

"Now we both know that's not true." The man mocks, and the hand that had been fisted in his hair now cups his face. It makes Cy freeze up like a deer in the headlights. He wants to say that the God's touch disgusts him, that he can't stand it, but it's not true. He had once been desperate for Necrophades to grace him with even a handshake, and old habits are hard to shake. He makes a small noise in his throat, and Necrophades grins triumphantly. He smacks Cy again, using the hand that had just been holding him. It hurts, and Cy feels bile rising in his throat because of his own behaviour. Yes, Necrophades disgusts him, but he disgusts himself even more.

"Some things never change, hm?" His God is laughing at him, and Cy finds himself narrowing his eyes. Acidic green meets putrid yellow. "Stay away from me." It's supposed to come out threatening, but even Cy can hear the weakness in it. The plea. How had he ended up in this state? There's a moment of charged silence between them. Necrophades moves like he's going to hit him and Cy flinches back. The impact never comes, only mocking laughter. "Are you trying to give me orders?" "No, I just - I-" Cy feels panic bubbling in his throat, trying to claw its way out. He wants to scream about the unfairness of it all. "What was that?" Something curls around his throat, so cold that it burns. Cy doesn't have to see to know it’s shadow magic. "N-no." He hates himself. He hates himself. He hates himself.

The stammer, the weakness, everything. He's disgusting. Maybe he taunts the God because he believes deserves this. Like a religious devotee prostrating himself on an altar, ready to receive divine punishment for the sin of simply existing. "You will respect me." The shadows suddenly become corporeal and is pulled taut towards the ground. It shortens rapidly and yanks him to his knees and doesn't stop, forcing him down into a parody of worship. Palms press into the floor in an attempt to stop his face being forced against it, and then it tightens, slowly cutting off his airways. "Please." Cy chokes out, nails breaking as he claws at the floor. "Beg for my mercy."

Cy's eyes are watering, and he wants to refuse. Wants to call the God's bluff. Is it a bluff? What if he dies here, on his hands and knees? "Pl-ease..." He hates himself. Tears drip down his cheeks and he tells himself it's because of the lack of oxygen. That's all. "Mercy... Please." "No." He can't breathe. No matter how hard he tries, he can't draw in air. His lungs are burning, face darkening, and his already frantic movements become more desperate. He reaches to the side blindly as black sports form across his vision, and his fingers curl around a box cutter he uses at his work station. He rams it through Necrophades' shoe, and the God howls in pain. The shadows dissipate as soon as the thread of concentration is broken, and Cy doesn't hesitate. He scrambles to his hands and knees and grabs Necrophades' leg, eyes wide and expression almost feral. He drags the box cutter along the back of Necrophades' ankle, through his tendons, and the God drops like a rock. "You little bastard!" He roars, and the room bleeds black. Cy can't see anything, the shadows a blotting out all light. The temperature plummets as his adrenaline spikes. Necrophades will punish him for this. He will make it hurt and Cy doesn’t think he can take much more of the pain. He’s petrified, like a cornered animal, and something in him just… S n a p s. He lashes out blindly with the knife, teeth bared. Feral. It sings through the air but hits nothing, so he slashes down, and feels the blade meet resistance. His hand is suddenly wet, and the scream Necrophades lets out is shrill and inhuman. Light floods the room; the God has a knife buried in his eye and blood running down his face in a steady torrent. Cy has to kill him, has to end this – cut the sickness off at the source and dig it out like rot. Necrophades is panicking, hand hovering like he doesn’t know if he should take the blade out. His breathing is coming in short gasps, and Cy feels a rush of power at the sight. He’s laughing before he can help it, loud and ugly. “I hope it fucking hurts.” He hisses. “This won’t kill me.” Necrophades spits back, just as much venom in his tone. He’s right. It won’t. Unless. Cy glances down at the USB around his neck, containing the piece of the God’s soul that they use to resurrect him. He laughs louder, pulling it off with one hard tug. Everything is happening so fast, but he’s had enough and he will end this. “No, but this will.” 

He drops the USB and stomps on it. It bleeds ink, and tendrils of shadows lash out at him, slashing at his leg. “No!!” Necrophades reaches forward, desperate. Cy grinds the piece of technology beneath his heel in spite of the pain, and the wisps of shadow that had attacked him dissolve. The weight of the situation hits both of them. “You – you just…” The God sounds horrified, and Cy finds it almost erotic, how in control he feels. Necrophades had become bloated his apathy; comfortable in his power. He is a caricature of a God and now he will die at Cy’s feet. “Beg me to help you.” Cy hisses. “Cy… Cyrus, don’t do this.” “Beg!!” 

“… Please.” 

“No.” Cy uses his foot to kick the knife into Necrophades’ skull, as hard as he can. There’s a horrible crunching sound and a spray of blood, and the body falls back with a dull thud. The dark magic in the room swirls, disconnected from its master. 

The seconds drag by like hours as the gravity of what he’s donw settles in.

Cy slumps back in his chair as a puddle of blood starts to spread across his floor.It was almost funny. A God, supposedly perfect in his infinite power, brought down by a mere human.

He wasn’t doing too well. He hadn’t been for a long time now, but he did his best not to let it show. It was significantly harder to laugh things off now, but he managed. He always had. It was just how he functioned.

The deterioration of his mental health was nothing new, but the changes to his appearance were. They weren’t huge, but Cy knew his own body. He knew when something was different. He was still just as gaunt as ever, but there was a grey to his complexion that reminded him of a corpse.

He stared at himself in his bathroom mirror, pulling his lips back to examine his gums. They bled whenever he brushed his teeth now, and his bones just kind of had a perpetual ache that made it hard to sit comfortably. It was a result of the injections, he was sure. He would have gone to a doctor, but there would be little to be done. As it was, he just popped painkillers like candy and kept working.

The little changes were easy to ignore, most of the time.

But days like today, when he bathed and groomed himself, he was forced to confront them. When he stripped his nail polish off his nails were darker than they used to be. When he brushed his hair, it seemed to just fall out in his brush.  So many tiny things, that all added up to something that should have been a giant red flag to stop.

It wasn’t.

Cy took the time to repaint his nails and get dressed, drying his hair and combing it through. He did it gently, and was rewarded for his efforts when only a few strands came loose. It was an improvement, he supposed.

It didn’t matter. After spending another few minutes inspecting himself, Cy slipped out to his bedroom to get dressed. He wasn’t going out anywhere, but general cleanliness had always been important to Cy. His house may have been cluttered and messy, but it wasn’t dirty. If that ever changed, then it was a sign that something was seriously wrong.

He pulled on his beanie and then retreated back into his office, where he had a large, flat TV screen laying face-up in the middle of the room, plugged into a little black box that looked like it was covered in fresh, wet ink. He sat cross-legged in front of it, glancing around to see if Zorc was lurking nearby.

No? Whatever. He didn’t need him there to watch or supervise. He did most of this without the God’s input – all he ever got from him were nasty little comments anyway.

Bony fingers took off his USB necklace and laid it down on the floor neatly, feeling the absence of it like the loss of a limb. It was always cold against his chest – it felt weird for it to be gone.

He pushed himself up and went over to his main computer, tapping a few things in. Behind him the little box whirred to life, and the TV screen lit up with static that slowly turned pitch black – pulsing like it was alive.

Good. This part was old news to him now. It worked. It worked, and he had made so many other things since this.

Still, it was needed.

He picked up another little black box – this one sturdier, but made of the same living material, and moved over to the screen. He knelt down in front of it and braced one hand against the edge, sucking in a nervous breath. It was fine. It was fine. It was fine.

Just a one-sided portal. The other side… Well. Was there oxygen there? What was the pressure like?

He looked around. Still no Zorc.

Fine.

He held his breath and leaned into the pulsing screen, taking the little box with him. Calling it cold would have been an understatement – it was like he’d just submerged himself in liquid nitrogen. His entire upper body vanished into the screen, down to above his waist, with one arm still out and gripping the edge of it like a lifeline.

He couldn’t see, but he could feel. He was surrounded by... He didn’t know. Squirming, frigid nothing. It coiled around him and tried to tug him deeper, but it wasn’t that strong a tug. 

It wasn’t the most disturbing thing, either. No - that would have been the silence. Unending, hollow, harrowing. He swallowed, and couldn’t even hear that. Like that sense had been cut entirely. Coupled with being unable to see, he wanted to hurry up and be done.

He took the box in his hand and stretched as far as his body would allow, feeling the - the - whatever - curling around it like they wanted to tug it away.

Perfect. 

He leaned in further, and then let it go - let it get swept out of his hands and tugged away into the nothing. 

When he yanked himself out of the screen, he was filthy all over again. Covered in a squirming, black rot that was eating his fucking clothes. 

Whatever.