With the ring of a hammer, Hephaestus returned to his realm within his tower. He stood before the large machine with numerous screens; each with camera footage of the incapacitated Red Hood, the golden chains still growing just as bright. Two mechanical heads floated near the subject ready for anything, their eyes constantly scanning the Red Hood.
"Is the soul extractor finished?" the god asked.
A mechanical skull that was nearby the machine turned to face him, "Yes lord."
Hephaestus stepped closer to the screen. On one hand he did not wish to do this so soon, not before understanding more of this prisoner. However, if what he knew was right, then this thing was responsible for all the recent suffering; including what Poseidon has had to go through. So, if he was going to cooperate with the other gods on this, he was going to get some satisfaction out of it.
"Remove the subject's armor," grunted Hephaestus.
The machines on screen began to fly toward the Red Hood on command, then more mechanical heads flew in from the doorway or teleported into the chamber. One by one, hands sharp as razors formed from their foreheads. Then, with great struggle, the machines slowly removed every section of armor that had fused to the Red Hood's flesh.
When a piece was removed, the skin went with it as if it was the inner coating of the armor. The machines quickly transported each of the pieces into containers coated in divine runes before carrying them off.
Once all was done, the Red Hood was nothing but a body of crimson flesh, dripping with dark blood. Everything had been removed, that is, save for the hood. Hephaestus though, was not done, "Contain the blood immediately and remove that hood."
At once, the mechanical hands turned into vacuum devices, and stored every piece of blood into more rune-covered containers. Then, the machines flew over and attempted to tear off the hood.
At first there was no success. But, by the end, with the strength of hundreds of machines, each with the might to rip apart solid iron, the sound of flesh being torn began to echo like that of a creature screaming. As the fleshy hood was removed, bones came with it as if they were ripping off the wings of an angel.
Hephaestus kept watching this whole time, cautious yet glad to tear this thing apart for what it had done. He kept watching its fingers and eyes. But nothing happened, the chains doing exactly what they were supposed to do.
"Begin the soul extraction," boomed Hephaestus. Immediately a giant metallic arm descended from the darkness of the ceiling above. In place of where the metal arm should have had a hand, there was instead the soul extractor, which in appearance was comparable to an advanced syringe.
All the while, unbeknownst to Hephaestus, Gael was able to feel every bit of pain that was being inflicted upon him. He could not open his eyes, nor could he so much as twitch his fingers. He could only hang there in silent agony; just like those of humanity from before.
(-)
Wine began to rain down in the realm of Bacchus.
Petre shook as (̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶w̶e̶l̶l̶e̶d̶ ̶c̶o̶r̶p̶s̶e̶)̶ Bacchus swayed, "YOU BELONG TO ME!" "̶Y̶O̶U̶ ̶L̶O̶V̶E̶D̶ ̶M̶E̶ ̶D̶I̶D̶N̶'̶T̶ ̶Y̶O̶U̶!̶?̶"̶
Again, Bacchus drew back her hand with the chalice, pulling out more of Petre's life force, crimson spilling from his mouth and to the ground. He collapsed completely to the floor, his body aching, its strength almost spent entirely.
Part of Petre wanted to lay there, to give up. No part of him wanted to keep resisting or was too tired to try. She caught him, he failed. What was the point in struggling?
The thought was silenced as Petre heard something whisper in his mind. Was he really going to give up now? He was so close to being free from her. And what of Gael? He had to be the one to help him this time.
Petre forced himself up and wiped the blood off his mouth. Though Petre did not say anything, his meaning was clear.
Bacchus's eyes twitched but Petre knew she didn't want to draw any more out of Petre, for it would kill him. And so, instead, she ran at Petre.
She rammed her chalice into Petre's face as steaming wine spewed out of it. The strike cracked like thunder, and he was sent backwards onto the ground; his face burning as blood trickled down his face. He could barely see, the changing of the world disorientating him.
Back and forth he was ripped between worlds, back and forth the withered husks of the pasts who watched him blinked in and out.
There was only one clear thought in his head. Such a blow should have killed a mortal like him.
Suddenly he saw Bacchus jump above him and slam the chalice down where his mouth was. Her off hand reached and grabbed his mouth, trying to force it open. He struggled, but he was too weak, he could only watch with his bloodshot eyes.
He stared at the chalice, the only thing that remained the same in his shifting vision.
Petre managed to keep his mouth closed, barely resisting his mouth being forced open as the wine hit his face. It felt like hours as she poured it, but eventually Bacchus stopped and watched Petre's reaction.
When Petre could finally see past the wine, all he could tell was the shimmering gold of the chalice. It's dark eyes staring at him, as if trying to tell him something.
Something slinked its way back into Petre's thoughts, into his body. A thought. Petre was sick of that chalice, and he was sick of its control over him. He was tired of all this suffering she caused him!
Was it adrenaline? Was it a strength deep within him? Or was it a strength from beyond rushing to his aid? Petre did not know, but he felt energy return to his body, and he reached for the chalice. Bacchus was shocked at Petre's sudden movement as he grabbed it.
"You are nothing without me!" Bacchus yelled as she fought over the Chalice. Surprisingly they were of equal strength, neither one able to rip it out of the other's hand. Then, with a head butt, Petre knocked Bacchus back and took the chalice.
He stared at the chalice, its skull looking back. Petre could feel its power flow into him as his fingers clenched around it. He looked back at Bacchus and then back at the chalice again. At long last, Petre had a chance to have his revenge. His long-repressed spite started filling his heart.
Suddenly Bacchus had gotten back up and slammed into Petre, ramming him onto the rails of the bridge; the chalice falling from his hands and onto the ground.
Petre pushed Bacchus off before they both began fighting like animals; punching, scratching, throwing, and slamming each other into stone constructs and parts of the giant roots while smashing and breaking both in ruins. Every time Bacchus tried to grab the chalice, Petre would always knock her away from it.
Then Bacchus pointed towards the wine ocean below, a trickle of wine then shooting upward and coating her arm. Then the goddess grabbed Petre by the throat and lifted him up, the wine giving her the strength to do so like an exoskeleton or additional muscles.
Bacchus shouted, "I don't need that thing to beat you! I am not some weakling!"
Petre had noticed that it had not been long for her without a sip from her chalice, and yet one of her fingers was already shriveling up. She was dependent on the wine, just like him.
She reached at Petre with her off hand and then pulled like she would have with the chalice, but… nothing happened. She growled as she had a look of realization, facepalming herself for a moment as she remembered something.
It was then that something dawned on Petre, something he only now realized. As Bacchus held Petre up, he looked down at the wine ocean below and poured his thoughts into it, just like when he threw the bottle of wine to help Gael in the mountain. "I understand what you mean now," he choked out.
Bacchus did not seem to notice his words as an area of the wine ocean began to bubble before a small stream of wine flew upwards. She screamed at his face, her eyes foggy as she was clearly not all there anymore, "AREN'T YOU PROUD OF ME, AREN'T YOU HAPPY FOR ME!?"
The stream of wine swerved over the bridge and clung to the floor, sliding towards the chalice. The wine grabbed it and began to bring it to Petre. Bacchus did not notice as she placed both her hands on Petre's throat, rage in her eyes.
His vision was getting blurry, but Petre kept the moving chalice in the corner of his eye. He reached with his left hand; Bacchus was too focused on her madness to notice.
"I understand what you did to me," Petre gurgled, his hand grabbing the chalice. Bacchus suddenly regained awareness as the moment the chalice was in Petre's hand, the wine that reinforced her arm began to drip to the ground; her authority over her domain being overwritten. Her eyes widening as Petre spoke, "You made me just like you."
Then, all the wine that rained down, the wine that brought the chalice, and the wine that Bacchus had used to strengthen herself rushed to and coated the chalice before Petre struck it into her skull.
The strike almost twisted her head a complete one eighty as she dropped Petre and stumbled backwards. She then slammed to the ground, her skull bleeding.
She groaned and got up on her knees before she keeled over on the ground, vomiting and sobbing.
Petre shakily got up and limped towards Bacchus. The goddess no longer seemed to bother getting up, she was now powerless, her cries being that of pleading for someone to love her and be proud of her.
"You ruined my life," grunted Petre, "You destroyed everything I held dear. You used me for your own pleasures. To me you have been nothing but a monster, a torturer who enjoyed my suffering for their own gain,"
The man paused as he looked at Bacchus as she looked up at him. Though it was the effects of his mind seeing false visions, what he saw gave him pause. Bacchus was no longer turning into the swelled-up corpse, but instead… Petre was looking at his younger self.
A sweat poured down his forehead as he questioned himself. Was she a victim too? Should he forgive her? Like his father did him? No, she didn't deserve it! But, neither did he. Petre did not want to spare her, but the memories of his father held him back.
So, for his father's sake and not his own, Petre threw the chalice aside. He spoke saying, "I give you one last chance. If you care about any of your followers, your creations, all of it, and if you truly care about me, then all I ask for you to let me go."
The two sat there silently. Petre then turned around but kept the thrown aside chalice in the corner of his eye.
Bacchus's crying started to stop when Petre began walking away. "Don't," She whispered, "Don't," She growled," She cried, "Don't you dare leave me," she groaned before turning it into a yell, "You can't, you won't," she got up and ran towards the chalice, her eyes blurred by her tears," YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE ME-"
The goddess was silenced as Petre grabbed the chalice faster than Bacchus could and held its top to her chest. Any mercy gone from his eyes, "You've made your choice."
Doing the same motion Bacchus always did to Petre, Petre then jolted his arm backwards with the chalice as if ripping something out. Wine and blood gushed from both her mouth and every orifice upon her body, even her pores. But Petre did not stop at the brink of death, he allowed it all to flood out of her without ceasing.
When all was done, the goddess in almost every way was a mummified corpse who could not say a word as she fell off the edge of the bridge and into the endless oceans of wine below. The last thing she ever saw was a shriveled Petre as she mouthed again "You will never leave me."
Her body hit the ocean wine with a quiet splash.
Petre gasped for breath as he looked around, only now noticing the denizens of the realm standing in nearby buildings; watching with looks of horror.
It was over. she was gone.
Those words felt odd to Petre as he grasped at the chalice in his hands. As his fingers clenched around the gilded skull cup, he felt power flow into him again.
He fell to his knees as he then began to hear numerous prayers burn in his mind. He felt himself gain a connection with every follower and everything that was created by or was under Bacchus's dominion. He felt like a god, and it was intoxicating. And he hated it. With Bacchus's death, he had usurped her from her position.
Slowly Petre managed to block the prayers out, managing to filter them as he got back on his feet.
Petre looked at the portal, and down at the chalice. He did not want this, the power of this chalice, the symbol of his suffering, it felt wrong. But it would have to be a necessary evil. That is, if he wanted to free Gael.
Suddenly, Petre felt the realm scream as he winced in pain. Those who resided in the realm screamed in terror as the great tree began to rapidly deteriorate, its roots cracking and falling apart along with the buildings before turning to ash. The wine below began to evaporate until there was nothing but an abyss; the denizens of the realm soon falling into the depths with the crumbling buildings.
And Petre already noticed bits of his flesh aging rapidly as dust flew off of him.
The consequences of killing Bacchus were already clear. Everything she had done was now dissipating with her. And that also meant he too would fade away. After all, the only reason he is still alive after all this time was because she made him like her.
He did not have long. With his influence over his new realm, Petre thought of the portal opening to Hephaestus' realm, and so it did. Then, without looking back, Petre left the crumbling realm and into the realm of another god.
(-)
Hephaestus watched as the soul extractor moved closer to the Red Hood, machinery whirring louder and louder as all protocols to extract this thing's essence were completed. It wasn't a perfect replica of the soul extractor, but under the current situation, Hephaestus was pleased with his attempt at replicating the original Chief God's work.
Nonetheless, Hephaestus held his breath in anticipation. The syringe slowly pierced the gnashing wound in the red Hood's chest; like a surgeon being careful with their cuts.
Then the syringe whirred once more, but nothing seemed to happen.
"What's happening," asked Hephaestus.
A skull maintaining the computer replied, "The spirit is resisting the soul extractor. However, calculations predict that it will still be possible to extract a piece of the soul."
The smithing god scowled in frustration. It seems yet again he failed to reach the same skill as his creator. Suddenly, his concentration on the matter was broken as he felt a god enter his realm.
"Move to the cameras at the entrance," commanded Hephaestus without hesitation. The screen flickered and he saw a withered Petre running towards his tower.
How did Petre get here? Bacchus would never have allowed him here. Nor was there a reason for him to be here. The god's mind raced with paranoid thoughts.
There was no reason for him to be here. Unless… that's right. He remembered now. How could that detail slip his mind?! Petre had been with the Red Hood all through Zipangu and even before that fight with the chaos gods. The two must have been working together!
No matter, Petre wouldn't get far with what Hephaestus had in store, "Activate the Old Talos Prototype, that should stop him. Proceed with the extraction. Wait-" the god stopped as he looked closer at the cameras and saw what was in Petre's hands. It was the chalice. He had a divine relic! Of course, the one god who slipped out during the vote would cause this! The enemy was aiding, or at the least, using Petre to free the Red Hood! That had to be what was happening!
Immediately he shouted, "Activate all readied defenses that can reach him. Whatever he is planning, he cannot be allowed to accomplish it!"
(-)
Petre gasped as he felt the air from his lungs get sucked out by seemingly nothing. It felt like his whole body was being unmade and remade as he was forced through the fabric of reality and into Hephaestus' realm, slamming to the ground facing first.
He looked up from the metal floor, only to find himself in that same nightmare realm of taverns again, but this time, far ahead of him, where the great tower of Hephaestus stood, was instead the church of his father and stretching upward from its roof, a pillar of pulsating flesh; adorned with hair and pulsating veins. It stretched higher than what he could see.
Though Petre knew where he was in the real world, he would no longer drink the divine wine. He would not let it control him anymore. He was tired of hiding and running from this nightmare of his.
Without another thought, Petre rushed into the entrance of what he knew to be the tower.
When Petre's feet crossed the threshold, he found himself in the halls of his father's church, albeit dim for there were no lit candles. He slowed down a little, looking at each of the empty pews as nostalgia filled his mind.
However, Petre could not see the altar that his father spoke from. For there was nothing there but shadows.
Then he heard it, a laugh, a distorted giggle that echoed through the room. Suddenly, each of the candles lit up, and before him, where the shadows of his father's altar were, was a pile of wriggling skin and hair that towered above him. Atop it was a face that was an amalgamation of his and Bacchus's face, giving a look of rage and happiness. It gave another disgusting giggle, "I told you Petre, you will never leave me."
(A/N)
Not as satisfied as I want to be with this chapter. But I got to publish this chapter sooner or later. I've given myself deadlines for these and I got to deliver.