#o.headcanons

[containatrocity]

The Angle.

October finds his in.

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-

a crawling fear that he may have let something important become known in the haze of discomfort nesting in his stomach, all the same.

[containatrocity]

HC; The Last Crossroads Rockstar

"Oh, no... these are just... the tools of my trade, baby. Now. Who're you takin' your chances on?"

It is a testament to his ego that October Roulette's kit of death has been on grand display since the early days of his fame. The custom engraved .45 Colt Buntline gifted to him at 17 years old depicting honeysuckle flowers, dead trees and runes along the barrel with a red-stained cherrywood handle is where his nickname "Roulette" came from- the gamble a deadly one, not a monetary one, and this side-arm has featured prominently on the cover of every cover his band and solo career saw released, and is a commonly tattooed reference for fans of Autumn's Gamblers or Odd Revolver. It's regarded fondly, an old friend- the one thing that has never left him high and dry, and despite it's age, nearly 31 years old, it functions like new, and the black tarnish on silver barrel only serves to intensify the silvery engraving and citrine stone inlays along the handle- glittering, bright orange eyes staring from the carved-in face of a fanged goat. But it is not typically a .45 round that ends the lives of those who fall to the Gambler, that honor is attached to the 9-inch blade of the skinning knife similarly customized to October's strenuous wants and desires. Intentionally made to be difficult to place as anything other than a standard hunter's kit and therefore easy enough for any party to get their hands on to perform any host of cruelty with, October's favored blade depicts a nightscape between the handle and business end, and is kept sharp enough he could shave with it. It sits hidden in a holster against his side just the same as its partner in crime, prepared to kill at a moment's notice, and it's blood spilled with this knife that imparts it's clinging, coppery smell to the heavy, custom made jacket that hangs around his massive frame. The coat, intentionally made to further bolster an imposing, towering frame, is more threat than fashion, worn even through hot weather over typical crustpunk fare. Heavy metal fasteners reinforce dirty, stained leather and run through matted brown, black, and red fur, strips of fabric and bits of metal fastened to sleeves to further customize something that even those familiar with his celebrity assumed was a simple costume piece. A wolf's pelt lends itself to the collar, thick grey and black not dissimilar from October's own mohawk and Vitiligo dotted, age-marked beard. It has seen as much suffering as its owner, and in the fabric, fur, and leather, it carries the blood spilled from every offering made to that which handed over his success- bodies made and laid to rest at crossroads with surgeon's precision and an artist's madness.