Chapter Text
Perpetua stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, unable to truly understand what he was seeing. The deafening roar of thousands of people drilled into his skull and thundered inside his chest. The mask covered half his face. Perpetua didn’t recognize himself in the mirror—and for a moment, he wished God wouldn’t recognize him either.
He had never been there when Perpetua needed Him. “It’s the divine mystery,” the Father used to say. “When God stands before you, you will not see His back, and when He walks behind you, you will not hear His steps.”
Perpetua let out a weak laugh. All of that felt so far away now. He filled a glass with vodka clumsily, spilling it all over the table, soaking the black makeup and the inverted cross he was supposed to wear and still didn’t feel fucking comfortable wearing.
He drinks. Abrupt and careless.
“Come on,” he mutters, slamming the table, forcing his throat to swallow. His stomach twists violently. A gag threatens to bring the liquid back up, but he swallows harder and drinks half the glass.
He coughs and stands up, pacing in circles. His heart hammering. The Ghouls are heading onstage. He can hear them perfectly as they finish getting ready, laughing.
“Come on… you can fucking do this.”
Tonight Perpetua must, absolutely must, be looser. He must dance. He must laugh and make others laugh, and he must be sexual—move sexually, make people desire him…
“Come on… please. Come on…” He looks at himself in the mirror; his eyes in that moment feel so distant. He doesn’t recognize himself—but that’s fine.
He prefers to be this. He prefers to be V. It’s better. And because it’s better, he has to do whatever is necessary to keep being this.
Which is why he finishes the vodka, and when someone knocks on his dressing room door, he inhales—decisively—two lines of cocaine.
His heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts, but he stops hearing it as soon as he steps onto the stage and the crowd screams at the sight of him. There’s no way he can hear his anxiety now. No way he can hear the Father’s voice, or God’s invisible whispers, beneath the thunder of the drums.
The lights flood the stage and the hundreds of thousands who showed up tonight.
Perpetua looks at each and every one of them. Every smile, every person—close or far. All these people with their unique problems and unique dreams.
He searches for something. Anything. A sign.
But no matter how hard he looks, he doesn’t find God, and for a moment… Perpetua feels more alone than he ever has in his life.
“Damn! Way better than the first time!” Psaltarian is nearly ecstatic. He won’t stop slapping his back or laughing.
“I tried to do it just like him,” V says humbly. Beneath the sweat and the smudged makeup there’s a soft, nervous blush. “Do you think he liked it? I mean—ah, sir, do you know what he… what he thinks about me? Has he… has he talked to you? A little?”
V tries not to sound so fucking nervous or excited.
Psaltarian laughs and waves a hand dismissively. “Frater Imperator is always busy. He doesn’t have time to watch two whole hours of a show—he’s the head of the Church!”
“I know, but—” V wipes his face with his forearm, the makeup smearing, revealing pale, blotchy skin beneath. “He must’ve said something.”
“Well, yeah… yeah, he actually did.”
“…Then? What? What does he think of me?” The excitement is obvious.
But Psaltarian’s expression hurts. V knows it the second he sees his face.
“Look, it’s not about what he thinks or not. But since you’re so interested—the last time we talked he complained. Honestly, Cardi only knows how to throw shit around when he doesn’t get what he wants. It’s not personal. In general he said, uhh—”
Psaltarian gestures vaguely, as if trying to soften the blow.
“I think the word was buffoon. Easy to forget. Blah blah blah…”
“That’s… what he thinks?”
V feels a stab in his chest. He forces his voice to sound optimistic.
“That’s not true. That’s not— I’m starting off the same, aren’t I? I know I’m not good, but I can—”
“No, no, no! You’re amazing! You’re really good! Who cares if the Frater doesn’t get it? That’s his problem!”
He is so condescending V almost feels nauseous.
“Right. Maybe… maybe I can call him? Please? There’s gotta be a way… I really want to meet him.”
Psaltarian backs away, turning his back, and V chases after him.
“You shouldn’t waste your time with that. Please—you’re in the biggest tour we’ve ever had! You can’t waste time or energy on Copia! ... You need to get better.”
“But you said I did well!” V pants, rubbing his mask desperately, his face itching, heat becoming unbearable.“How the fuck am I supposed to get better?!”
“SEX! Fuck! How many times do I have to tell you? You’re not singing in the choir of that tiny rancid church we rescued you from! This is a heavy metal band—people come to get excited, turned on! Sure, you danced a little, talked a little, that was nice, but it’s not enough, V.”
This time V yells—“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?! In front of all those people?! I don’t know how and even if I did I fucking couldn’t!”
Psaltarian laughs almost sarcastically.
“Is that supposed to be my problem? Not my job. I don’t know, shit… look, V, go get laid. You’re always so tense. Grab a Ghoul. Order whatever fucking escort you want and fuck all night. You need it. And if your dick doesn’t work or you have some other fucking issue, then at least jerk off! But for the love of Satan, I need the next show to be worth fucking watching!”
V feels disgusted. Humiliated. He presses a hand to his chest, forcing himself to breathe. The coke is wearing off, the alcohol already seeping out through his sweat.
A premature, unpleasant hangover crawls up his skull.
“Give me his number. I’ll ask him for advice. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. And I have the former Papa right there—let me talk to him. I want to talk to him.”
Psaltarian stares at him for a moment, then quietly laughs. He takes out his phone.
“Okay, well… here’s the number to his office. There. I hope you can… have a productive exchange…”
V locks himself in his hotel room and spends the entire night thinking about what to say.
He’s excited. Really excited.
He can’t sleep. He has three days off until the next ritual but frankly he doesn’t give a fuck.
What matters is that he has his brother’s number.
He calls at 8 AM. His fingers tremble as he dials. Every little beep… beep… makes his chest swell.
“Hi! Yes! Can you put me through to my bro— to the Frater Imperator! Ah, great! Tell him it’s Perpetua! Hello? HELLO? HELLO?!”
The secretary hangs up on him five times. The sixth time she simply stops answering.
Perpetua wants to fucking die. He’s furious.
He calls again an hour later.
“I’m REALLY Perpetua! What fucking proof do you want?! Ask Psaltarian—he’ll tell you I’m calling for Frater! Now put him on!”
They put him on hold for ten minutes, during which Perpetua feels like he’s going to faint.
Finally—
“Yes, one moment, I’ll transfer you…”
Then another minute.
“Sorry, the Frater says he’s busy, but he understands you two have a meeting scheduled for… December 2026? If it’s nothing urgent, he’d be happy to see you then. He’ll free fifteen minutes for you.”
“…2026?”
Perpetua goes very still. The cold hotel room is filled with morning light leaking through the half-closed curtains. He stares at the distant buildings of a city he doesn’t know.
“Did you tell him it was me?”
“Yes, Mr. Perpetua…” The secretary makes a strange sound, then adds quickly, “Would you like to leave a message?”
“...No, no. It’s... fine.”
A few seconds of silence.
Perpetua feels suddenly ashamed, unable to keep holding the phone to his ear.
“Thank you.”
Hundreds of buildings with hundreds of apartments. Perpetua presses his masked forehead to the cold window. All those people living there—they must have such complicated lives. Families. Parents or siblings. Cousins, grandparents. They probably celebrate birthdays together, fight, have dinner together.
Perpetua never had any of that. He feels like a stranger.
A strange man who spends his days in hotel rooms, living an even stranger life. Trying to be something he isn’t. Not even that—trying to simply be something.
Because at that moment he knows he is nothing.
“Son of a bitch… oh… he’s a fucking son of a bitch.”
He had never been anything.
He throws the phone against the wall, shattering it. Then everything condenses into explosive force. He screams.
Screams as hard as he can. Grabs a chair and smashes it against the panoramic window—three, four, ten times until it bursts into shards raining down outside.
Why try to be something he isn’t now? Why believe them?
“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”
The chair—dramatically—flies from the 30th floor and crashes onto a car. Next victim: the table. Third: the pillows.
Swiss barges in, pale, not understanding what is happening. He finds Perpetua destroying the room like he’s turned into a demon straight from Hell.
“What the fuck! WHAT THE FUCK! Hey! V, stay still! V, CALM DOWN!”
“Don’t fucking touch me!” Perpetua screams when he sees the unmasked Ghoul trying to step in.
“That… that bastard—he ignores me! He says I’m a buffoon! H—he says I’m easy to forget! And yeah! It’s TRUE!”
A bottle nearly hits Swiss in the head.
“Shit! Perpetua!”
“Of course I know it’s true!” Rage makes his voice tremble. “They abandoned me like a fucking animal in a church and forgot I fucking existed until suddenly they need me and give me… all this shit and all this fucking work and this new faith and—”
“AGH! BROTHER, NO—THAT TV IS EXPENSIVE! FUCK—WHAT ARE YOU—STOP!”
Perpetua throws the TV into the wall, the crash loud enough to bring all the Ghouls running.
Psaltarian arrives, pushing past Swiss. He stares at the destruction. Stares at V—disheveled, sweating, his mask barely hanging onto his face.
“What is wrong with you, you crazy bastard?! The window! Look at the fucking window! What—did the coke hit you wrong, you junkie motherfucker?!”
“I quit!”
“What? You can't quit!”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing right now! You, that bastard, and all your fucking rituals can go to hell!”
“Oh—you miserable little shit, do you think I can’t rip your neck off—AGH!”
A glass nearly hits Psaltarian’s face. He and Swiss jump back. When V rips the hotel phone off the wall and smashes it, they know they must leave.
For a moment, Psaltarian gives up and dials the police—but stops.
Deletes 911.
Dials a different number.
“Oh shut the fuck up woman , and put the idiot on! It’s Psaltarian! …No, no, don’t give me that shit, I KNOW he’s not busy! …
Frater, good morning! Yeah, yeah, whatever. Listen—”
CRASHHHH!
“Did you hear that? That sounds like a sofa—”
BOOOOM.
“—crashing onto a fucking truck. You need to come now and control your little brother before he cracks someone’s skull open. I don’t give a shit! Get your ass on the first plane to Germany!”
Copia couldn’t believe ANY of this.
That narcissistic, spoiled, half-assed imitator had somehow forced him—against his will—to be out here in the hottest, most humid and disgusting morning in Berlin!
Copia felt a thousand years old as he got off the plane after a terrible ten-hour flight and a four-hour delay. Now he was supposed to—according to Swiss—talk nicely to his little baby brother and make him understand he has to work.
Frankly, he planned to do the opposite.
He’d find Perpetua, pat him on the shoulder, help him pack, call him a taxi. Then he’d go back to Psaltarian and say something like, “Ahh, nothing could be done, BUT hey—don’t you just happen to have one last living Papa available?”
Copia smiled. He knew every setback was an opportunity. So he walked quickly, almost cheerful. Finding V’s hotel was easy—he only had to follow the trail of debris scattered across the pavement.
After a few affectionate greetings with the Ghouls—and awkward short words with Psaltarian—Copia took the elevator to the top floor. He fixed his clothes, ran his hand through his hair, smoothing every strand back, cleaned any faint smudge of makeup.
Truthfully, he was nervous.
This is supposed to be his brother. His younger brother. His twin, actually.
Copia had never had a brother and had no idea how to behave. Regardless, he’d be polite, respectful, warm. He was like that with everyone. And it didn’t matter if V was, among many things, a shameless thief of his goals, songs, moves, and his Ghoul.
As soon as the elevator doors open, he hears music—loud and violent. Ear-piercing. He follows it to the only door on the floor. He swallows hard, breathes deep, bracing himself. He knocks—nobody answers.
On the third knock, the door opens on its own.
The noise is deafening. Walk by Pantera at full blast. The hallway is covered in glass and broken electronics.
“Excuse me? Good morning…?”
A trail of debris leads to a small pool of blood. Copia follows the drops to their source.
Sitting on a sofa, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle, facing the window.
Copia stops breathing.
He’s there, illuminated by the morning sun yet somehow still cloaked in heavy shadow. One hand pours the last drops of whiskey down his throat. The other arm hangs over the back of the couch, dripping blood until it forms a small red puddle.
“Perpetua, good morning.”
The music swallows his words.
Copia tries again—
“I came all the way here to talk to you!”
Perpetua doesn’t respond. He shakes the empty bottle and drops it; it shatters unheard.
Copia gives up and frantically searches for the speaker, pressing random buttons until it shuts off.
V turns his face slowly. Visibly drunk. Long, slow seconds that make Copia’s skin prickle with cold.
The mask covers half his face. No makeup. Pale skin flushed faintly pink. Lips swollen and wet as if he’d been biting them all night.
His curly hair is a messy halo of brown ringlets slipping over the metal of the mask and his ears.
Copia can’t speak. The man who is always eloquent suddenly stammers, gripping the speaker.
“Ah… umm I… hello? Ah—”
Say something!
“GOOD morning, Perpetua! Very nice to meet you!”
Perpetua still makes no sound. Same piercing stare. Copia, uncomfortable, pats his shoulder awkwardly.
Perpetua looks at the hand touching him, then looks at Copia again.
“Eh, how are you? You… look good, haha. What better place than Berlin to have whiskey for breakfast and break things? …Do you like techno? They play great music here!”
Silence.
“I’ll, uh—I’ll get a towel. Your arm—” Copia points at it. Perpetua looks. “Ah. Right. I’ll be back. Wait.”
Copia nearly bites his tongue. He steps carefully into the ruined bathroom, avoiding the shattered sink and bidet. He finds a clean towel, shakes off debris.
“Fuck. Do you like techno? What the hell am I even saying?”
When he turns— “SHIT!!"
Perpetua is right in front of him, standing, staring directly at him.
“So… is this what it takes for you to finally talk to me?”
V steps forward, and in the tiny bathroom filled with wreckage, Copia backs up into the wall.
“I have to break all this shit. Threaten to quit. Put your precious church’s money at risk…”
“Wait—hey, hey, hey!”
V places his arms on either side of Copia’s face, trapping him. Their faces inches apart. Copia can see the eyes that mirror his own—white and green.
“In the end, I’m just a tool.”
His breath reeks of alcohol and nicotine. Copia looks down—at his lips—then at his eyes. They’re red, wet, like he’s cried all night.
“Not really,” Copia blurts out. “If you weren’t important, they wouldn’t have dragged my ass out here. I put the church aside to talk to you.”
“…Really?”
“Really!”
V laughs, weakly. Blood from his wrist stains Copia’s jacket. He grabs the towel with shaky hands and presses it to his wound.
“You don’t have to lie, you know? Copia… it’s fine. Honestly, I’m happy. Fuck, I haven’t felt this happy in years…But of course I am also drunk since yesterday”
Copia straightens up, stomach twisting with anxiety.
“Really. I just wanted to see you. I wanted… well, I had—had, I guess—lots of hopes and stupid ideas I wanted to try with you…”
He wipes sweat from his neck.
“I’ve always been naive. I get excited easily. When they told me I had an older brother, I wanted…”
V searches for the words but doesn’t find them.
“Well, doesn’t matter now. Honestly, just seeing you is enough.”
A deep breath. A calm smile.
“Sorry for making you come all the way here. I didn’t expect it… but thank you. You don’t have to stay. I know you don’t want to. Tell Psaltarian I’ll finish three more rituals. Or five. Whatever it takes until they replace me. I don’t want money. I don’t want anything…”
“Wait, V—”
Copia is somehow even more speechless than before. His mind racing, trying to parse Perpetua’s words. Perpetua himself.
“I don’t want to leave, and yes—I came all the way here to see you and… I ALSO want to do things with you!”
V stares at him, not believing him.
“No, seriously! Okay, look—”
Copia inhales deeply.
“It was shitty that I didn’t take your call yesterday. I know that was awful. But I was very busy—busy not dying for the sixth time in Mortal Kombat, actually—
Look, I don’t know how to be a brother. I didn’t even know I HAD one until suddenly you appear with all your things, doing everything I used to do and… shit, man…
Let’s start over, okay? You’re upset—that’s obvious.”
“I’m not anymore. After I threw the mattress out the window I felt pretty calm.”
“I’m sure you did, fuck hahaha—”
V laughs a little, shy, and suddenly Copia notices a trace of sweet, almost tender embarrassment.
“How about we get out of here and go eat something? Fuck it, I’m here anyway, let’s have some fun. Fuck Psaltarian.”
The emotion is unmistakable. Perpetua smiles—quickly covers his mouth, as if trying to hide that burst of happiness and not seem too transparent.
“…Yeah. Why not?”