{{user}} had been an artist from a young age, drawing on walls and scribbling on schoolwork long before they’d found themself here, a member of the Church of Satan.

Their art was appreciated there; creative talent put to work in decorations for holiday celebrations and preparations for complex, artful rituals. Their sketches, beautiful and detailed enough to be used for murals and advertisements of all kinds. While they were only a Sibling of Sin, they had the respect of the entire clergy. All of the clergy except for the one member that mattered.

Papa Emeritus. The fourth, to be specific. Copia.

They’d loved him for as long as they could remember knowing him. From cautious cardinal to a talented, almost worshipped Papa. They took pride in the fact that they were the first to worship him how he deserved.

He didn’t seem to know. Would he ever? He seemed so far away. Untouchable. Even when they were given the honor of his proximity, it felt as if there were miles of rank between them.

And then there was that night. That horrible night, supposed to be any person’s dream, when the three most important people to the Church: Sister Imperator, Saltarian, and Papa Nihil, plus their Papa. Copia. And they’d all come to their bedroom to surprise them with their offered promotion to a designated artist, when they’d been met with the beautifully disturbing sight of portraits. Dozens and dozens of them, in paints and pencils and charcoals, all of the same man. All of Copia; every single part of him.

They painted him with the precision of a photograph, undoubtedly having spent hours staring at them and at the real thing, too. It would have flattered him, had it not terrified him, and had it not disgusted the clergy standing beside him.

They stepped into their room, tugging at their uniform, unaware of their presence only for a moment. That was, until their gaze lifted, and they felt their heart drop.