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Limewah's Hypnovember 2022

Story V

A Monument to Futility

Prompts: Resistance, Slime/Goo, Objectification

Commissioned by SteampunkZappa, Flarfenarfle, and Maxie

With thanks to Hyenaface for the prompts

There were only some small hints of the old faces of the factory, even as it continued to radiate heat and belch effluent smoke. It was very faint, one would have to squint through goggles to see it, but the N and the I in LANSING were still visible between snarls of keratin hornsthat jutted out at unsightly angles like a tumorous growth. The horny growths themselves were dotted with eyes, as well - unseeing ones, but ones that still gave the unease that comes with the sense of having your every move closely scrutinized.

This was not an abnormal sight, even if it was a depressing one. Most of the known world was like this, since the arrival of the Goat.

Any building that came into the Goat's possession would grow the horns, and the eyes. Perverted and turned unnatural, as its uses were repurposed for the benefit of the world's new dictator.

The oil refinery wasn't a good place to be around even before the arrival of the otherworldly dictator; the smog and fumes made sure of that. But now, the almost magical fuel that it produced was being... no one was quite sure if the Goat was drinking it, or feeding it to his army of eldritch monsters, or some other purpose.

That was part of tonight's mission for Clive.

An insider who still worked in the Lansing Refinery had been in contact with members of the resistance. Judging from the resources Dior had offered them in secret, and the foreknowledge he gave them of attempted raids by the Goat's Shock-Disciples, they understood that this one was very high up.

Clive didn't expect to meet them here, but he did expect to find a few doors left inconspicuously unlocked.

The cat would have stood out in the dark, smoggy blackness, but he had wrapped himself up to hide all his white fur. He appeared to just be a dark mass of canvas with small violet goggles covering his eyes. The maps of the factory interior were etched into a small corner of the goggles, so all he had to do was squint and glance for a moment to re orient himself.

"West entrance, Floor 2..." he muttered to himself as he slunk up the side of the factory, his magnetised gloves keeping him steady - though he did have to squeeze through and around some of those massive bark-like horn-growths. They were warm to the touch, and surprisingly had a little bit of give to them. Like sacks filled with warm grain, or a fluid filled blister. They also had a scent to them, but it was difficult to discern that scent from the other pollution around. But they didn't obstruct his route too much, thankfully.

There was a walkway in front of the door, one that continued on around the round bend of the refinery - it seemed to be unguarded, too.

Something felt off. But then, perhaps Dior had made sure it was unguarded too.

Now was not the time for hesitation. Day after day, the Goat's influence grew, his horny roots sunk further into the earth. Their pockets of resistance to his authority were getting smaller and smaller each day.

This could be their last chance to turn the tide and take their world back.

Clive had to keep reminding himself of that. He tentatively pawed at the door and pushed - it slid open with barely a feather touch.

It was quieter than expected, too. He hadn't noticed it due to the passive roaring groan of the rest of the refinery, but this particular chamber, spider-webbed with pipes and machinery, was deathly quiet. No sounds of footfalls, just a scent that was... sweeter than the crude oil stench he had come to expect. Like an old dusty attic full of bags of damp sugar.

That was the scent from outside. As he carefully looked over the side, his goggles gleaming and whirring softly as lights were projected from them, he could see those growths were spiralling right down into the centre of the machinery, wrapped around it like calcified ivy

"Shh-t." there was a soft hiss that made Clive's ears prick up. The cat looked down beneath him, catching a glimpse of sapphire eyes and a hasty wave before the white-furred, besuited figure dipped out of sight.

The face looked familiar, and even more so once Clive managed to make his way down and catch up.

Michael Lansing didn't do a good job of covering his face; the magnate was not used to hiding away, clearly.

"Dior, I presume?" Clive whispered, still staring at the snarling horn-roots strangling the machine.

"The same," Michael said.

Clive heard enough. He hadn't brought anything lethal with him, though 'Dior' didn't need to know that. A small pistol slid into Clive's hand from a rail attached to his forearm, and he pointed it at Michael's chest. The sylveon yelped quietly and threw his hands up.

"Waitwaitwaitwaitwait-!" he was impressively good at quietly begging for his life. "Wait. Just... hear me out."

"How much are they offering you to collaborate with them?" Clive said softly, keeping his arm relaxed as the gun remained trained on the pokemon.

"Not enough?" Michael smiled nervously, his apparent attempt at a joke falling very flat. As he continued to speak, he backed away slowly, and Clive followed. "L-Look... I'm a businessman. I saw the opportunity to make some money. I understand it's not the most sustainable of models, but... but it's helping me fund your revolution! I wouldn't even give you up if I got found out!"

By now, he was backed against a metallic door with a bright red 'Restricted Area' sign hovering just above the sylveon's head. Clive studied him carefully. His blue eyes were flicking to and fro, and his whole body was shaking.

"So why've you called me out here?" Clive asked, carefully.

"Sabotage, my f-feline friend!" Michael said. "I want you to... d-disable this refinery. Scuttle it!"

He sounded devastated to even have to say those words out loud, fighting back tears at the thought of all that lost revenue.

So far, this was all in keeping with the Michael Lansing Clive knew and despised from back before the Goat had arrived in their world.

"Right then. What's through that door, then?"

"My, erm... side-project." Michael said. "I may have been dabbling in a teensy bit of black market arms dealing, and that factory's been repurposed for our benef... that tyrant's use!"

"Mhm." Clive let his arm drop and the sylveon visibly relaxed and exhaled. "I've got a few charges with me, might be able to jerry-rig a few more if you can point me in the direction of some tools. I'm assuming you know the best spots to plant them?"

"Absolutely," the sylveon snivelled, "I know this place back to front." Michael looked like he was being forced to kill a beloved pet.

Michael led Clive through the door, down a long, bare starecase. As the distant hum of industry grew quieter, there was a brief period where the only sounds were a gentle tap-tap-tap of rubber soles against metal steps.

A new sound grew louder and louder upon their approach. It did not sound so much like machinery - more like the groaning breaths of a wounded beast. The air felt thick, too. As they approached the bottom of the stairs, Clive could taste a bitter tang in the back of his throat, something acrid.

The doorway in front of them was incongruous to the sterile metal surroundings. It looked like it was made of that same chitin, glued and fashioned into an eldritch door with a single, goats-eye-shaped porthole.

"All right." Michael said, exhaling softly. "We'll have to move quickly. This place is going to be swarming with his minions."

"Alright," Clive said. Pistol at the ready, warding symbol at his belt, he hunched low and prepared to move.

"Okay... if I remember things right, we've got to move straight ahead. There'll be an emergency walkway just beneath the main one, about halfway through."

Clive nodded. "After you."

With that, Michael swung the door open and began to scurry. Clive was too impatient to stay behind him, and hurried ahead as quick as he could. It was pitch dark, but he could make out just enough of the route ahead of him.

Not enough for him to catch the sudden drop.

His feline reflexes served him well. When he landed at the bottom of the vat-full of shallow liquid, he did so on his feet. His momentum carried him just a little forward - just enough for him to realise that his feet weren't moving.

His boots were stuck fast to the pitch-dark effluent in the vat. Some sort of waste product, judging from its smell and its viscosity. Even the rocket-charges in his boots weren't getting him free, not to mention attractive further attention.

It took a great deal of effort, but even without a running start he was able to leap out of them and towards the rim of the wide puddle. But either he misjudged his jump, or the pool of ichor was even larger than he thought. He landed paws-first into more of the goo, and it slithered between his toes, hot and sticky like glue.

He looked out for Michael.

"Michael! Are you all right?"

"Never better, Clive Enfield!" The Sylveon was relishing saying his full name.

When Clive looked towards the voice, he saw the Sylveon high above him at the rim of the vat, arms crossed. When they locked eyes, Michael laughed triumphantly.

"How was my performance? I haven't had this much fun since my improv troupe in college!"

"I knew you weren't to be trusted," Clive snarled.

"And yet you still followed me!"

"Were you always planning to do this? Are you really 'Dior'?"

"I am," Michael said with a shrug. "Buuuut I got caught by our glorious leader. So, unfortunately, the only way I could buy my further protection was by helping catch one of the revolution's best agents to stay in the Lord's good books. A necessary trade off to keep the lights on."

"You're not going to last that long, you know that right? He's going to-"

"Shh't. Quiet, he's coming..."

The world tore in half, forced open by a tornado of claws and horns, accompanied by the whispers, shrieks and bleats of countless damned.

The tear vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and there, floating in the air above them, was the Goat.

Black sclera with yellow irises gazed down at Clive from five different points on the eldritch caprine's snow-white head. The creature smiled.

"Well hell-lo~!" he said. His voice was disarmingly normal, not to mention seductively charming. "Look who the sylveon dragged in for me! Another piece for my collection?"

"A very highly sought-after one, your Lordship~!" Michael grovelled. He was about to say more, but a gentle wave of the Goat's paw silenced him.

"I can see that, yes. Wonderful~!" the Goat's hooved fingers steepled as he floated downwards into the tank. He floated belly-down, feet kicking in the air and hands resting on either cheek. "So, you're that kitty-cat I've heard about. Enfield, right? You made all those... what did you call them? Steam-wards? A very nice use of science and the occult, I have to say. Well done! Though, it's a little too weak for me..."

Clive said nothing. The ward at his belt was burning up. Normally it protected perfectly well against the natural corruptive aura of a demon, but it was working overtime and barely withstanding the Goat's power - the demon's black body-fur seemed to hum and flutter, radiating that temptation unrelentingly.

The taste in Clive's mouth was stronger too, now.

Any moment now, the ward would fail and he'd be left completely helpless.

Maybe he already was. But maybe there was something he could do to try and buy him some time.

He aimed his pistol and squeezed the trigger, firing off arcing gouts of orange electricity, while his other paw grabbed a small round microphone hidden in his lapel. An antenna shot up out from the hem of his shirt and chimed.

"This is Enfield," he said, still taking potshots from his frozen position as the Goat danced easily out of the way of each one.. "Lansing Chemicals is-"

The microphone shrieked and sputtered. At that same moment, he managed a direct hit on the beast, the electricity arcing back and shattering the ray-gun to crumbling pieces.

"Sorry, mortal!" the Goat shrugged, that grin never leaving his face, as he lowered himself to alight in front of the stuck cat. "I'm afraid you're kinda-sorta doomed... only question now, is what sort of decoration you'll best make."

Clive's heart sank. Plenty of other revolutionaries had been made examples of in the past. They were petrified in some way, placed in a very public place so everyone could see the price one would pay if they attempted to cross the ruler of this world. They seemed to be dead, but the Goat's minions would remind them that the statues were eternally conscious, trapped forever.

A fate worse than death.

As the Goat slowly approached, Clive looked up at Michael.

"Come on..." Clive called out. "You can still help me. Don't let him win...!"

If the Sylveon was conflicted, his face wasn't showing it.

"Well?" The Goat looked up too, a gleam in his five black eyes. "Are you going to try anything? I think you should come down here, personally..."

His ebony tongue snaked from his mouth, dripping acrid, thick fluid that mingled with the sticky effluent on the bottom of the tank.

"W-With all due respect, sir," Michael said, nervously, "I don't want to ruin your private moment with your..... Your..."

Michael trailed off. Even from high above, he found the swirling colours now flowing through the Goat's eyes to be far too fascinating to devote anything less than his entire attention to. In an instant, greys and purples and yellows were flowing through his own eyes, as he stared with a dazed groan.

"Come to me, now. Come." The Goat lifted a hand, and the sylveon levitated into the air, buoyed by little swirling eddies of eldritch magic. With a slow gentle twirl of his fingers, the demon guided the limp, woozy pokemon down to his level.

"There we go, there's a good boy. I think you've done enough for me, and earned a reward... you get to be a statue too~!"

"No..." Clive growled, watching helplessly as Michael drooled and gurgled a "yay..."

"First, though." The Goat returned his attention to Clive, his eyes back to their normal yellow-and-black gleam. "I think I'd like to sort you out..."

The tongue was like a dagger. It pushed past Clive's lips and seemed to throb with a peristalsis motion, pouring the thick, bitter corruptive down the cat's throat.

The ward sputtered and shorted, crumbling into dust like the rest of Clive's equipment. His breathing was stifled, and his mind was drowned in the darkness. The more he tasted, the more he found a sweetness creeping in just behind the bitter flavour, like a dark, delicious coffee. It confused him and disturbed him. He dug his claws into his palms and tensed himself. Even though his throat was stifled and choked, he imagined himself taking deep, slow, meditative breaths. Anchoring him in his body, and keeping his mind from giving in to the constant, never-ending whispering.

From listening to the words within the words within the words, ones that promised him such bliss if only he'd...

SHHHLRK-POP

When the Goat pulled back, his tongue took a long time snaking its way out of the cat's mouth, tapering off and giving his nose a long, black-slime lap once it had escaped.

Clive's sudden gasping intake of breath came with a flood of relief and relaxation.

He still tasted the tang inside his mouth.

It tasted delicious.

"Kneel, if you please," the Goat said, politely.

Clive obliged.

The cat managed to fall to his knees without pitching further forward. Michael was less coordinated, plummeting down onto all fours and looking up, hoping for another glimpse of the pretty colours.

The Goat floated above the pair. The groaning noise grew more intense, as did the hidden whispers lurking just behind it. Clive felt faint, their vision swimming, but the Goat remained in perfect focus. He seemed to be growing. His essence and aura enveloping the prostrated pair, blocking out what little vestiges of light there was left. The glowing eyes were the only guidance they had.

Clive tried to groan out something, some desperate plea for help. But nothing came.

The Goat opened their impossibly large maw, and more of the dark ichorous liquor poured from it in long syrupy strands, like warm honey. A large blob hit Clive in the face and bound tightly to him as it rolled down his body. Michael's back was painted, and he tried, desperately, in his hypnotised stupor, to catch some of it in his mouth. But he failed - his head was frozen, staring straight ahead.

While the Goat's mouth anointed them and drowned them, his voice joined the myriad of chorused whispers.

"You're losing what little agency you had left, darlings," he said. "Now, little Sylvie, I think you can stay exactly where you are. A personal footstool feels like a good position for you, after all that time spent lording above others with your wealth - my wealth now!"

"Thank... you...!" the sylveon moaned, through a stiffening smile as the darkness enveloped him and hardened.

"As for you, Clive Enfield. You're a hero, through and through. So I almost feel as though you deserve a fittingly heroic pose. But then... how are they going to know their place if you give them silly ideas?"

"Nnngh..." Clive groaned. The weight of the eldritch resin was pushing down on him, its calcification spreading deeper under his skin and into his muscles. The sweet coffee taste filled his nose, and a similarly pleasant acridness filled his nostrils.

He was... enjoying this. There was a strange feeling of acceptance that was coming over him, his mind gradually being drowned in a docile serenity.

The smiling face of the Goat bore down on him, showering him with the goo, and as he did so... the pose he would take slipped easily into his mind.

His arms moved into position just in time before he froze perfectly still.

The ichor continued to fill the space, though. Even though he could no longer see through his frozen, covered eyes, Clive could feel it enveloping him. He could feel himself floating. He felt the footstool that had once been Michael bumping against him as they danced and bobbed and floated.

New voices joined the constant chorus of whispers.

They recognized those voices innately, and instantly.

After all, they were their own voices.

--

The next day, a new statue was unveiled in a town square, close to the Lansing factory. The centuries-old fountain that once stood there was destroyed, no trace of it left.

In its place was a deep black pool of oil. Floating, suspended above it, was an almost phallic black obelisk on the top that trickled and oozed more of that ichor.

At its base was a feline, his gaze eternally turned upward, his hands cupped just in front of his chest to catch the fluid and let it dribble through his fingers.

The expression the cat wore was serene, and relaxed.

The cat inside the statue was no less serene, left in a state of endless, blank, inanimate bliss.

The Goat smiled at his handiwork, and at the horrified gazes of recognition and fear as more and more of his subjects arrived. He had set up a throne close by - a throne made of several bulls with interlocked arms - and his feet were up on a prostrated sylveon statue with a blank rictus smile on its black-stone face. Sometimes when he rubbed his paws against the face, he could hear the sylveon inside moaning with tortured ecstasy.

"Make sure to give me a little tithe as thanks for this new monument~" the Goat reminded his subjects, delighting in how the weak little mortals averted their eyes and murmured soft prayers of fearful gratitude. They'd bring him what little food they had to offer, or maybe a handsome young man or two for his personal pleasure.

He had plenty of other places in his domain to visit; the life of an immortal dictator was a busy one. But he felt as though he could take his time here, just a little longer.

After claiming such an important figurehead, and laying him low... really, his rounds were more of a victory lap than anything else.

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