Fic, FAITHFUL, Ch. 31/60: The New Religion

[loveslashangst]

Story: Faithful
Author: Love! Slash! Angst! loveslashangst
Beta: the should-be-doing-homework ophymirage
Characters: Ianto Jones, Captain Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Captain John Hart, Rhys Williams, Janet the Weevil, Bradwyn Kapo, & a cast of (literally) thousands.
Rated: Adult for slash, canon bisexuality, religious sacrificial violence, language, and lots and lots of sex (various pairings and kinds.)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did, Torchwood 3 would be a much more crack-tastic place.
Spoilers: If you haven't seen the first two series of Torchwood, you WILL be spoilered. I like to mess with canon, especially when it pisses me off.
Summary: AU. OT3 ZOMG! Jack/John Hart/Ianto. Captain Hart is back in town. The Weevils are acting weird. It might be the end of the world. Let the crack-tastic smut ensue.

Okay, so here's the dealio...

Husband's in town. Plans are changing. Real life continues to kick my arse. Though, I still get credit for having the rough draft of this in on Monday -- it's just that Real Life has been kicking O's arse too, so we're late with the final. On the plus side, we've also been doing massive amounts of world building.

Thank you to all for patience and good wishes.

And as for "series 3" of Torchwood (aka "The 5 Episodes that Promise to COMPLETELY Screw Up My Fanon")?

For purposes of this fic, S3 doesn't exist. I'm sticking with my plans, no matter what evil they pull on me. This world is too much fun for me to play in. Hopefully, y'all will agree with me.

On with the show...

"Praise the Lord and swing into position
Can't afford to be a politician
Praise the Lord, we're all between perdition
And the deep blue sea

"Yes the sky pilot said it
Ya gotta give him credit
For a sonofagun of a gunner was he, shouting

"Praise the Lord, we're on a mighty mission
All aboard, we're not a-goin' fishin'
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
And we'll all stay free!"
(Frank Loesser)

(In which Rhys puts his back into it, Gwen puts up a fight, John gives grim consent, Jack is backup, the Weevils take a nap, the Kapo has a crisis of faith, Ianto reaches out, and Janet is the new Messiah.)



Brad Kapo sets down twin cases of chemo-ballistic ammunition. Annoyed, he straightens the messy stack of ammunition cases as more of his fellows bring supplies and carry off the detritus of what appears to be decades of maintenance. The soft-bellied culls and complacent females are doing the best they can, but all are woefully out of condition and -- if what Well-Dressed One told him in broken Neo-Standard is true -- the Overlords will arrive within the hour. Brad Kapo swore to Jon Kapo that he would assist their preparations for departure. Now his motley brigade of just over twenty-five hundred cannot hurry fast enough.

On a scaffold above him, Janet croons encouragement as she disconnects the external power lines from the ceiling of the cargo bay. This ship is a beautiful antique, but despite the miraculous repairs Jon Kapo's effected in the cockpit, Brad Kapo doubts the craft will even survive launch into space, let alone the trip to the promised new homeworld.

Then again, it is not his place to question, which raises another thorny question: what IS his place among these huumanyi?

The curious five-creature team have regrouped within the latest half hour. After making whatever preparations elsewhere in this complex, now the huumanyi fetch and carry alongside the Weevils, sweating and swearing like any cull. The Well-Dressed One, Swishy-Coat, Big-Eyes -- even Jon Kapo is coiling wires and barking orders. (Perhaps he told the truth after all.) And the Fat One is actually quite fast on his feet, efficient as though he himself is Kapo. It puzzles Brad Kapo, for this industry is all out of joint with the usual behaviour of Overlords.

Overlords hunt. They kill. They eat. They amuse themselves. But they do not stoop to manual labour. He'd thought Swishy Coat was Kapo here. Then he'd met Jon Kapo in single combat and very nearly been defeated -- surely only a Kapo could defeat another Kapo. But Janet still insists that because the Well-Dressed One wields the loathsome sweet-smelling spray, he must be Kapo.

Huumanyi make no sense. Even in so small a group, there's no order to their organization, no hierarchy. It's as if culls and Kapos don't exist, for even Big-Eyes orders the others about, which is not out of character for her sex, but Brad Kapo can't imagine putting a female in charge permanently because Kapos are high-visibility on the battlefield, and often the first to be killed in action. Females are precious -- why paint a target on them?

Well-Dressed One jogs up to him, slightly breathless from his exertions. "Wii cn has U hel n hangar?"

Pidgin, and his accent's terrible, but Brad Kapo still understands what the huumanyi means. He follows him to the rear of the cruiser and out the cargo bay door, which has folded down to form a ramp for loading and off-loading. All the others of Well-Dressed One's kind address him in so many ways that Brad Kapo's not been able to yet decide the appropriate etiquette, so he settles for something safe. "Huumanyi?" he says.

"Ja?" The huumanyi has that one correctly-accented, at least.

"U r Kapo?"

"Nai," says Well-Dressed One. He waves in the direction of Swishy Coat, who is toe to toe, arguing with Jon Kapo as usual. "Is Kapo ja."

Not exactly comprehensible, but again, Brad Kapo can guess what he means; that Well-Dressed One considers Swishy Coat and Jon Kapo as... co-Kapos, he supposes, if there is such a thing.

The next question may prove offensive, but he has to know. "U r cul?"

"Cull?" Again with the awful accent. What might be confusion on that odd, flat, near-toothless face. "Iz wut?"

"Ni-nai cul," Jon Kapo says. He turns from Swishy Coat, whose scowl might indicate he's not ready to cede the argument. After one last, brief hard stare at Swishy Coat, Jon Kapo marches imperiously toward them. He pauses to glare at a team of Weevils, who low obedience and wrestle a pallet of supplies out of his way and into place.

"Iz cul wut?" Well-Dressed One asks again.

The slender huumanyi babbles an answer in that nonsense huumanyi call language. Brad Kapo can only catch every fourth word or so, but near as he can tell, Jon Kapo is explaining what a "cull" is. Odd that huumanyi would not have such distinctions -- makes the whole process of choosing who takes a nap and selecting one's mates so much simpler.

Well-Dressed One shakes his head no. "Ni-nai cul."

Brad Kapo looks to Jon Kapo. "Hee r wut?"

To Brad Kapo's relief, the question seems to amuse Jon Kapo, who explains in pitch-perfect Neo-Standard that huumanyi are different than many other species. More chaotic. Less organized. And because the team is so small and Captain Jack Dumbass is an idiot, all must share the responsibility so the Captain doesn't get them all killed.

Brad Kapo supposes that makes sense.

Well-Dressed One seems to come to some realization, and asks Jon Kapo an urgent question. Jon Kapo calms him and turns back to Brad Kapo, explaining that he and Captain Dumbass had been debating the care and maintenance of the Weevils on this voyage, which should be no more than four linear weeks.

Brad Kapo is oddly touched that this huumanyi would care how he disposes of his charges. He explains that he plans to begin the usual decimations as soon as the last of the detritus is cleared from the cargo bay and surrounding hangar. Once the ship is prepped, he'll kill off roughly two hundred and fifty of the surviving culls. (One-tenth of the population, and the tenth least likely to fight well enough to be worth feeding.) The females will consume the remains of the culls, tidy the cargo bay, and pack in to prepare for the voyage. "Wyi taak nap. Otrs liv 4 U."

Jon Kapo nods approval. Well-Dressed One catches his arm, babbles intently. When Jon Kapo shrugs him off, Well-Dressed One calls to Swishy Coat.

What ensues is the oddest argument Brad Kapo's ever witnessed. Standard practice for loading a Weevil company seems to produce excessive emotion in the huumanyi. And when the raised voices attract Big-Eyes' attention, she proves the most passionate. She goes fearlessly against first Jon Kapo and then Swishy Coat.

Huumanyi are very odd indeed.

In the end, Brad Kapo decides to push his luck and roars a call for attention. His voice echoes thunderously in the cavernous hangar. For a moment, all the Weevils still, awaiting his orders. Startled, the huumanyi back up and cease their bickering.

Brad Kapo barks the command to move. Weevils lope back into action.

"Weevls dii," Brad Kapo says to the huumanyi. "Otrs liv. Giv liif. Taak liif. Iz waa, ja?" With any luck, they'll stop wasting time debating something so simple as a decimation.

Well-Dressed One 's broken Neo-Standard reply is even less coherent than usual, due to some emotion than Brad Kapo cannot quite suss. Why would huumanyi care whether Weevils live or die? Surely he sees that a few are expendable, a small price to pay for the freedom of the whole.

Not wanting to offend him, Brad Kapo listens, then looks to Jon Kapo. (At the end of the day, this team has only one blooded leader who's proven himself in single combat.)

Jon Kapo nods consent. "Iz waa. Ai-ja."

Janet tells him that the last of the preparations are almost complete. Reliable thing that she is, she's been coordinating while Brad Kapo treats with the unreasonable group of beings before him. He purrs his gratitude, then howls the long, sustained cry that's the traditional call to nap-taking.

Big-Eyes renews her objections. She works herself into such a state that Brad Kapo expects her to burst into tears any moment. Jon Kapo shushes her. Swishy Coat, who still radiates resignation, puts a hand on her shoulder.

Brad Kapo is never more proud of his race than during a decimation. The culls who volunteer to take a nap for the others now line up before him. Words of offering and acceptance are exchanged. He makes each death quick -- a precise bite to the back of the neck. Sever vital arteries. Snap the spine in one neat mouthful. The bits of flesh and bone serve as his reward for his service.

Behind him, Big-Eyes begins to keen as nine females come forward to remove the first cull's corpse for division and consumption.

The next cull steps forward to take his nap.

Big-Eyes surges forward. Swishy Coat holds her back. Jon Kapo, arms folded sternly, commands her silence. (Some things communicate even without his being able to understand their language.) Well-Dressed One, ever obedient, watches. And, though he makes no move to stop the decimation, he does not look happy.

Even as Brad Kapo accepts the sacrifice of each Weevil, he is troubled. He does his duty -- standard practice is standard practice after all, and these culls all take their nap with honour and dignity -- but the reaction of the huumanyi both confuses and discomfits him.

The Fat One jogs up, perhaps attracted by Big-Eyes' keening. Fat One enfolds Big-Eyes in an embrace that Brad Kapo can only describe as comforting. Why? The ones who fall now are only culls. Their lives are irrelevant -- aren't they?

Is it possible that huumanyi are as odd in their perceptions of Weevils as they are in everything else? Certainly, casual observation seems to indicate they don't hold Weevils as inferiors, supplies to be used and consumed. Indeed, Swishy Coat has provided sumptuous accommodations for all the Weevils he's captured. All are well-fed. Janet has nothing but kind words for Swishy Coat's team, naming them protectors rather than captors. And why are the huumanyi so upset? It's as though they watch not a routine decimation, but the slaughter of their own kind.

As he continues his grim task, he begins to think the worst heresy of all: perhaps his kind -- even culls -- have some kind of intrinsic value to these huumanyi? But if that's true, then is there a difference in worth between himself and these huumanyi? And if there is no difference between himself and these creatures he'd once thought were Overlords, does that mean that he might have the potential to become Overlord in his own right, not by quirk of genetics, but by the strength of his will and the wisdom of his leadership?

Impossible. The next killing bite is perhaps a bit excessively fierce. Blood sprays. The huumanyi back up, crying out. Not in fear. In horror. He has never known a race that would show anything but joy for the death of a Weevil.

He is in dire risk of becoming as much a heretic as Janet.

His kind might have intrinsic value. As beings. As people in their own right. That would mean he'd need no war to hold his power. No conflict to secure the favour of his Overlords. Indeed, that would mean that Overlords... serve less purpose to him than these culls serve to their fellow Weevils.

As he watches the next team of females remove the next corpse, he muses grimly that at least culls can feed their own kind.

And there is the point right there: what gives a being worth? Overlords consume and use his kind. Culls feed his kind. If he ignores the traditions that have sustained him his whole life, which has more value? The answer he returns to again and again frightens him. Culls, the most worthless of the worthless, the most expendable of the expendable, are worth more to him than Overlords.

More, he is become Overlord for these Weevils. He now takes life just as dispassionately and capriciously as any Cythraul. Suddenly, the blood and bits of flesh that fill his mouth with every crunch taste sour.

Janet says nothing, but is a quiet presence behind him. For the first time, he has a sense that she too has had all these thoughts and more. That she has come to all these insights on her own and is now patiently waiting for him to see the heretical truth.

They need no one. His kind can be truly free. Not just distant from their masters, but as free as any other species that evolved without interference from any Overlord.

His kind have value. Value not as food or servants or amusement, but value simply by virtue of their existence.

Fat One puts an urgent plea to Jon Kapo. Brad Kapo knows his fellow leader well enough to recognize a façade of impartiality when he sees it. Jon Kapo answers the Fat One sternly, and whatever he says shuts everyone up. But even in the eyes of this blooded leader, the Little Fierce One himself, is... regret?

Jon Kapo explains that the huumanyi are upset by the killing. That they feel it unnecessary. That Big Eyes feels it is murder.

Brad Kapo pauses in his task, confused. "'Mrdr iz wut?"

Though Jon Kapo usually communicates with concision and eloquence, this idea makes no sense -- huumanyi hold that it is wrong for one of their kind to kill another? (Though Jon Kapo freely admits there are exceptions to the rule, especially when the nap-taker is better off dead, expendable, or just annoying.) But to kill is to be avoided.

Brad Kapo is so accustomed to killing that the thought is alien to him. It should be anathema -- Kapos are bred for skill and strength and ability to survive, not for their ability to think. To reason. To choose. He has never chosen before, not like this. If this heresy is true, then could he lead without death? Without killing? If that's true, then could he lead not because of what he is, but because of WHO he is?

One hundred fifty-six culls. This task that Brad Kapo has done so many times before begins to sicken him. He looks to Janet, who nods sadly. He looks to Jon Kapo, who nods, though he turns his head so he doesn't have to watch as Brad Kapo continues the decimation. Behind Jon Kapo, Big-Eyes and Swishy Coat are weeping. Even Well-Dressed One makes no move to hide or wipe away the silent tears.

Two hundred. He can barely stand to swallow each offering. Instead of relishing the gift of flesh, he begins to savour each word of the sacrifice. Tradition holds that each nap-taker must offer his life freely, and, as Kapo, he must accept the sacrifice and give his gratitude in return. Before, these were just words. Now, the ritual is truly sacred. He finds himself desperate to memorize every face. Every cull. These must be remembered. These were the first who were full beings.

Janet purrs quietly that these give their lives so the rest of them can live better and more freely than any Weevils have never dared hope.

With a final killing bite, he cuts short the last life. The blood is so dearly bought. This cull was a being. A full person. Worthy of respect. He gave his life... the emotion of what this cull has done as well as the weight of these ritual "murders", comes to bear on Brad Kapo. Overcome, he falls to his knees.

Janet lays a soft hand on his shoulder. Croons comfort. Promises that this ritual will die today. These culls were the last. When the rest of their kind arrive on their new homeworld, no Weevil will ever feed another again.

No more naps. No more murders.

He and Janet raise an ululating cry of mourning. The sound echoes and echoes and echoes in the hangar until it's a deafening cacophony of grief and defiance. This is where it begins. This is where they draw the line. These couple thousand who remain. These ones who trust him with their lives. These ones who form ranks to lope into the cargo bay. These are his future. These are his faith.

They are his. He is theirs. The Kapo is dead as the culls he murdered.

Now, there is only Bradwyn.

Previous | Next


Link to previous Faithful!Verse stories

Crossposted to jackxianto, torchwoodslash, guns_n_poodles