A/N: Full disclosure, I take a bunch of liberties with the lore because it's fun and also, frankly, you kind of have to. Anyway, enjoy this weird little fic and please be gentle with me, it's my first attempt at writing anything based on Ghost's lore!

Initium Novum

When the ghoul appears in the ritual circle in a flash of brimstone-scented smoke, Sister Imperator's immediate reaction is sweet almighty Satan, it actually worked. That thought is followed immediately by a second, more troubling one; why is it looking at me like that?

Silvery-grey, horned and whip-thin, the ghoul's odd appearance doesn't bother her, exactly, nor does its nakedness. The number of rituals she's presided over have long since passed the point at which unclothed bodies cease to be anything but mere tedium. What she does mind is the sardonic twist of the ghoul's lips as it stares back at her, coupled with its metallic eyes, devoid of iris. Eyes which are impossible to read yet still manage to give it the appearance of knowing something she doesn't. Which is probably true, because if the ritual has worked as intended (and all evidence suggests that it has), then this is a servant of Satan, Father of Lies, Fallen Angel, Morningstar, Leviathan, He Whose Kingdom Shall Haveth No End-

Her mental rolodex of the Devil's many titles scatters as the black candles around the chalked circle gutter, and a fresh plume of brimstone-tinged smoke erupts out of thin air. The ritual chamber echoes with coughing from the gathered deacons and their acolytes. When the smoke finally clears, there are four more ghouls standing in the circle, in loose formation. There's a muffled thud from some dark edge of the chamber as someone faints. The noise is enough to jolt Sister Imperator out of her stupor.

Collecting herself, she takes a breath and recites the words she's spent the past three months practicing, the ancient Latin ringing clear and imperious, "The clergy welcomes you, vassals. We belong to the same master that created you. You are summoned here to serve us, under the watchful eye of the Great Beast. I command you: reveal to me your true names." The words are perfect, pronounced with exacting detail, in a voice that has reduced more than one errant contrabishop to a quivering jelly. Gregorian monks couldn't find fault.

Which is why it comes as such a shock when the first ghoul runs its tongue over a pointed tooth, and says, "Nah."

A frisson runs through the assembly, a sharp intake of breath that echoes off blood-spattered stone. Sister Imperator blinks. This is… not what is supposed to happen. The ghouls are lesser demons, the lowest of their kind. They're built for servitude, quite literally, formed by the hand of The Adversary Himself. They're not supposed to disobey direct commands.

"You-" for the second time in as many minutes, Sister Imperator pulls herself together. The ritual is not yet complete, not until she has spoken the ghouls' true names and taken them fully under her command. "You are vassals of Satan," she says, fighting to keep the question out of her voice. "He has heard our exhortations and sent you to do His bidding upon this mortal realm."

"Oh, yeah. He heard you." The ghoul bares its fangs in a grin. "Loud and clear. His Infernal Majesty has chosen you and your Ministry to further His plans."

"We're here to Fuck Shit Up," supplies another ghoul, helpfully.

Several warring emotions rise fleetingly in Sister Imperator's bosom, one after the other. We did it, she thinks. He hears us. He sees us. And, before she can stop herself, Oh, shit. Then her eyes fall on the first ghoul's barbed tail, swishing insolently, and the moment curdles.

"Here's the thing," the ghoul explains, conversationally. "We enjoy having free will. And we're all on the same side. There's really no need to enslave us, except to be an asshole."

"And we're here now," adds another.

"It's not like Hell has a returns policy," a third chimes in smugly.

Sister Imperator can sense her control of the situation leaching away by the second. By the sweet ass cheeks of Lucifer, they've been here less than a minute and they're already unionizing.

Someone in the assembly clears their throat, and honestly, fuck them. She's sweating through her heavy robes, she smells like a charnel house, and the urge to scratch at the flaking virgin blood daubed on her forehead is driving her crazy. If some upstart deacon thinks they can do her job - her job! - better than she can, she'd love to see them try.

"Very well." She tosses an errant strand of buttery-gold hair out of her face, fixing the ghoul with a steely stare. "What exactly is it that you do? Foment war? Deceive nations?"

"Uh…" for the first time the ghoul hesitates, exchanging a blank-eyed look with its companions. "Not really?"

"Seduce the innocent? Spread discontent? Lead the faithful into wickedness and sin?"

"Nope. They didn't cover any of that in orientation."

"Listen to me." Sister Imperator drops her voice to little more than a whisper, leaning in as close to the ritual circle as she dares without crossing its threshold. "I have spent my life clawing my way through the ranks of the Unfaithful. I've spilt the blood of priests, forged holy missives, and had the ear of government ministers. I have shattered the glass ceiling, and fed its powdered remains to anyone who dared stand in my way. This-" with a sweep of an elegant hand she encompasses the bloodied chamber, the gathered acolytes, the increasingly restless deacons - "is the culmination of everything I have worked for, a duty worthy only of the title of Imperator. I can leave you bound in this circle, walk out of that door, and never once look back. I can order the binding seals be left intact until this place and all within it returns to dust. I can have the acolytes force-feed you communion wafers until your ichor turns to holy water. So I suggest you think very carefully about the next words that come out of your mouth. Do you understand?"

The ghoul recoils, metallic eyes wide. "There's no need to get nasty," it says, the faintest whine creeping into its voice.

"What. Can you. Do?"

"...I can play a mean guitar solo."

Sister Imperator feels the blood drain from her face, even as she turns to the next ghoul and asks, already dreading the answer, "and you?"

"Drums," says the ghoul.

This cannot be happening. The painstaking preparations, the sweat and blood and tears - mostly other people's, admittedly - cannot be all for naught. She'll be a laughing stock. There's no coming back from this.

I asked for servants, Sister Imperator thinks despairingly, and the Devil sent me the fucking Beatles.

Then, in a rapturous wave of clarity; oh.

Oh, yes.

I can work with this.

"Well then," she says, hastily rearranging her features into a pleasant smile, "The Ministry accepts our dark master's generous boon. Welcome to Earth."

Things move quickly after that, as the assembled deacons scramble to put as much distance between themselves and the rapidly ripening chamber as possible. And, no doubt, to gossip about what has transpired to anyone who will listen. The Acolytes are left to extinguish the candles and deal with the remains of the offering. Already there are fat black flies inquisitively buzzing around, which Sister Imperator chooses to interpret as a signal of Satan's appreciation. The ghouls mill around awkwardly, released from their bindings yet seemingly unwilling to stray far from one another. They need direction, Sister Imperator realizes, with a surge of something vaguely resembling affection. For all they make a show of rebellion, they really are built to serve.

And oh, how they shall serve.

"So…" the first ghoul says sheepishly, "...what do we do now?"

"You," Sister Imperator says, reaching up to tenderly graze its cheek, "are going to put some pants on. And then you're going to help me change the world."