The second Death arrived at the scene that he was supposed to be investigating, he decided that it was going to be one of those days. The cases with child victims always got him. The biting December wind did little clear out the stench that the dump site was giving off, and he could already feel the bile rising in the back of his throat, ever since his partner Asahel Jäger (whose nickname on the team was 'War') had looked at him with those stoic blue eyes and whispered "It's bad, Death."
Being in the FBI usually wasn't that bad, at least, not for him. But, on days like this, all he could remember was his family, his siblings.
Shaking off the feeling of guilt, he strode over to the plainclothes officers that had to be the lead detectives on the case. War was walking behind him, more sedate, probably less than eager to see the mess the killer had made in the abandoned factory yard.
Shaking their hands he vaguely recognized their introductions, forcing out his own, "SSA Amnon Al-Sayf. I'm Jäger's partner. What can you tell us?" Vaguely, he wondered how War dealt with the blatant staring, both his height and the brand on his forehead usually demanded attention, but this was bordering on ridiculous. He cleared his throat, waiting for one of the detectives in front of him to answer.
The black haired detective pulled her coat tighter around herself, clearly uncomfortable. "So far, six victims have been found. All under the age of fifteen. All dead for at least a week. Your partner said that you think this is connected to the killings in Afton?"
Death nodded and followed her and the taller man when they began walking to the scene. "Yes, I believe so, War had said that your officers found a certain symbol carved into all their bodies, correct?" Upon seeing her nod, he continued, "On their left and right shoulders? All of them?"
"Correct, but you can see for yourself now, agent. Fair warning, some of them are pretty… ripe." The orange-eyed man steeled himself for the sight ahead, and put on his best mask of impassive authority, and finally turned to the scene in front of him.
Across the limited space, there were six identical holes, with more being added by the crime scene investigators that were strewn across the grassy space. Next to all of the holes, were bodies. Children's bodies. Some still bloody and broken, while others were covered in dirt and grime. All of them were small, but other than that, there were no common factors. Male and female and all assortment of races, scattered next to those improvised graves.
He stooped down next to one, grimacing at the creak in his joints and feeling every bit of his thirty-eight years as he looked at the decaying face of a dead teenager. It never got easier, and he ignored it, rubbing away the grime on one of her bare shoulders to reveal an oddly runic symbol, scarred into her flesh, obviously an old wound.
Looking to War, who stood with forced coldness as he gazed across a field of the dead, he spoke, his usually raspy voice a darker, angry growl. "Definitely them, War."
The male detective, who seemed to have been waiting on the sidelines for his time to shine, tilted his head. "War?" He asked, regarding them oddly.
"A...nickname, of sorts. My team has earned the reputation of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. All four of us are named accordingly." Standing, he walked off the scene, his taller partner trailing behind, his platinum blond hair catching the bright winter sun. Deftly he called over one of the medical examiners and told them to make sure his team got the results from the autopsies as soon as humanly possible. "Or, if at all possible, perhaps supernaturally quickly, before your morgue gains more bodies to slice and dice." She had fearfully nodded and hurried off to continue working.
As he was about to reach his car, the detective called out again, asking, "So, then what's your nickname?" It was almost maliciously curious, the light in his eyes and Death made sure to answer it with his own spiteful glance.
"They call me Death."
With that, he slammed the door shut and revved the engine, driving off without a second look and steeling himself for the day to come. With news like this so early in the morning, he almost couldn't bear to see what else there could possibly be.
Next to him, War sighed, looking for all the world as if someone had dropped all of creation on his shoulders. Despite his weariness, Death was sure the younger man could handle such a burden. Whether he could, was another question, and one he didn't care to examine.
"What is it, brother?" He asked instead, slipping back into the old habits they had on the commune when they were young. He usually did when the four of them were alone.
"Will we ever catch them? Do we even want to? Imagine, our pasts, swept into the limelight when they haul the Lords of Destruction[1] in for questioning." It was not a silly thought, if and when the others from their hometown were taken in, there was not a flicker of doubt in Death's mind that at some point, his name would come up, and though the higher-ups in the Bureau knew of his and the others' past allegiances, he was sure that the backlash in the subordinate ranks would be sudden and strong. They would call for his blood for the things he had taken part in less than twenty years ago.
"Then we will have to deal with the aftermath, as we always have, War. There is nothing else we can do. We cannot stand by and let them continue to slaughter the ones who were not as lucky as we were. We left hoping to stop the violence, and yet now you act as if you are too scared of what could happen. It is making you lose sight of why our actions are necessary." His face was emotionless, displaying none of the internal turmoil he felt, speaking to his bond-brother in such a cold way. War had always been his favorite, and talking down to him had never gotten easier.
The blue eyed man said nothing, and out of the corner of his eye, Death saw him fingering the prosthetic arm that had replaced his original left one. The one that Death had been forced to remove, though under duress.
Now he was the one to sigh, and growling, made the sharp left that would take them back to the police headquarters in the middle of nowhere Maine.
Really, it was one of those days. All he needed now was some rain, and it would hit the trifecta.
[1] In Darksiders 2, the Nephilim are referred to as the "Lords of Destruction."
ALRIGHT, I was sitting there, doing nothing, when all of a sudden, my sister bursts in and says, "Okay but what if Darksiders was a procedural cop show?" Then she waltzed out, like she hadn't just changed my life and delayed the new chapter of Of Saviors and Sovereigns by a few weeks.