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As he always does, the Most Exalted Vocalist wakes up in a dark room on a small, sagging mattress. His chest aches, his breath comes out in a wheeze, and he is, as he always is, alone. He will be permitted to exit the room come morning, and will be permitted to eat and rehearse and rest as needed. He will have dinner with the Grand Immortal Dictator that night, and will receive instructions from the Clerk that afternoon, and if his behavior is satisfactory, allowed to see the rest of the band the morning after.
They, too, have their own reconditioning to go through, entirely free of charge.
The Most Exalted Vocalist does not exist when he is alone. He is a product of Draag, a creation, a fiction to be consumed. He is not the one killed at the end of every show, but is the one who begins the performance. By the end, their true self has made its nature known, and they are the one punished for it.
They’ve begun calling themself Death again.
They know what they were once called. They know what the Clerk calls them. They know what the Ministry of Complimentary Reconditioning calls them when they are checked in. They know the names of their friends and their family, and are the only one not allowed to forget between every show. But it is easier to be Death. Not much safer, but easier.
It is a fantasy to indulge, sometimes. That she (she, another flight of fancy they’d punish her for) could lead that band of horsemen, that she could bring the end of this reign, this hell. The Concrete Age, so they’ve fed her, has been prosperous, but it is sometime around when she sheds the mask of the Vocalist and becomes herself that she desires nothing more than to burn it all down. It’s pointless, in the end. At the end of the show, Death dies, and the Dictator’s immortality is secured. This has happened every time. It is unlikely to change.
They’ve given names back to the others, as well, the ones the bannerwoman would tease them with from atop her horse. War, to the right, the one who rebels the most outwardly, the one whose eyes burn with righteous, angry fire when Death becomes themself; Famine, to the left, the one who protects and defends, who sees them for what they are and does not flinch at the truth; and Conquest, their brother, the one who flees at the end of the night like their sacrifice is worth anything, like he won’t be back when they wake up. Tempted as they were to once again call him Pestilence, Conquest fits better. Draag, so it seems, has gotten its hooks in him the deepest.
She doesn’t know what the reconditioning does to them. Keeps them docile, at the very least. Keeps them from attacking any officers the way they likely would if they knew. It doesn’t keep them from greeting her with warmth and understanding when she returns newly bruised, but Death knows they’re not themselves until they’re all on stage.
In the dim light from their high cell window, however, she finds relief; the Gentleman, smile almost serene in her misery, sits propped against the wall beside her. They snatch him up quickly, hugging him close to their chest, hand moving over the molded hair in a gesture of comfort. For now, he is quiet, but she mumbles to him nonetheless. That things will be okay, that she’s there, that nothing’s going to hurt him. The texture is soothing under their fingers, the lines familiar, the motion repetitive. Like rocking a baby, Death sways side to side until the exhaustion of the night takes them. In their ear, the Gentleman whispers good night.
Sometimes, they wake up with him already in their arms. It might be the Clerk’s idea of mercy.