-1Seeking Kali

Chapter One

The little body squirmed in its sleep, tiny, toothless mouth opening wide in what was either a yawn or a soundless cry before shutting again, the babe settled back down into whatever dream it was having. Though it was obvious the dream was spoiled, little gurgling whines and whimpers escaping the infant every now and again, as if he knew all too well what sort of creature was watching him at his most vulnerable.

It warmed the heart, really. If the kid was that perceptive, he might be able to survive to an old age.

I moved across the room, over to the gaudy crib and leaned against the rail to better study the little parasite, staring as if I could discern his dreams through watching alone. He just seemed to get more upset the closer I got, tiny little face scrunching up and whines getting more frequent, no doubt calling for his pathetic excuse for a mother.

Not that she could hear him, she had been taken into another room entirely, no doubt sitting pretty, dressed in ribbons and lace, staring into space like a perfect porcelain doll. Even when her baby started crying, tears running down that chubby little face, I knew she wouldn't move.

As for myself, I didn't much enjoy the sounds of shrieking wails, though it hardly sent me into sobbing conniptions like others I could mention. Rather than letting my eardrums burst, I reached down to lift the tiny thing from its bed, giving him a bounce.

That only seemed to freak him out even further, the screaming reaching almost impossible volumes. I knew he couldn't be tricked, so I didn't bother-- for some reason the infant could tell what did and didn't belong. Even if one wore his mother's face and crooned in her voice, he would know the difference and start thrashing like a hooked fish.

It was remarkable, really, what a baby could do in the pathetic state it was in. We meandered over to the window, I shifting my hold on the little creature to catch his attention with the world outside. That seemed to do the trick, the wails lessening a bit in the face of the wonderful Beyond, dark little eyes opening up and gazing out through the remnants of his tears, tolerating my presence so long as we stayed where we were.

I was just thankful to have the worm shut up, so I did what he wanted. It was something along the lines of the last supper before an execution, anyway. Soon his mother would be taken over, and God only knew he'd never get this kind of attention from the woman again.

Dante was never known to be the "motherly" type. Even without ever really remembering a time where she was a mother, I knew this all too well.

Memories were tricky, in that respect. At least, I knew mine were. I suppose the Bastard had unintentionally left the implicit knowledge when He tried to recreate my soul, and that was how I knew things about the woman we called "Master."

There was no other explanation for it. I hadn't lived that life, so there was no possible way for me to know anything of it, especially something as personal as family. My second hint came in the fact that every single memory I had involved Him in a way, either directly or distantly.

My dreams were riddled with them, the constant plague of His memories masquerading as my own, watching from some distant angle as a small blonde boy was posed on a stool like a trophy between his dark-haired mother and his tall father, curls untamable no matter what the painter tried. I dreamt of the boy being teased about it, driven to rage at the man responsible, only making him laugh harder, making the little boy even angrier.

It was so touching, what a man remembered most about his firstborn son.

Because that's all that there was. Fights, arguments, hostility, hatred, manipulation, blackmail.

Disaster.

Of what was once my family, I only remembered what He did, nothing more and nothing less. And as a result, I gleaned more information than the little boy ever knew.

Blaming Him was easy enough, so I used the excuse often. Though, on the negative side, it tended to make you question what you thought you knew about the collection of almost random data so lovingly dubbed the SOUL. After all, if souls were dreams, hopes and memories, then what was to be said about the infant now drifting off to sleep in my arms?

He was far too young to really have experienced anything that would impact him to any great extent, his dreams no more than flashes of color and sound. The most he hoped for lay in the Id, the constant physical demands of the body, the need to eat, sleep and shit.

So did the little brat even have anything that could be considered a soul? Even further still, what did that make us?

I never voiced any of this. Four hundred years had taught me many things when it came to speaking of something so fragile and taboo, something some of the younger ones could use a little practice in. While highly intelligent and highly skilled, Dante was still a human being, a member of a wretched species that could not, and would not, accept certain ideas.

It was simple enough to learn: Homunculi were little more than fabricated dolls. They did not feel emotions, only pretended to. They did not have families, only creators.

They did not have souls.

I did my damnedest to keep a straight face whenever this came up in conversation, fighting not to laugh out loud as I watched the Master reprimand the youngers for letting their tongues wag in the wrong direction.

Even immortal as she, even with the years and years she lived, even with all the knowledge she gained, there were still things that made her cringe, still the little nagging doubts that she kept locked away in the dark where she might never have to face them as long as she lived.

She was still human, and it was hilarious. Even with how much she detested humankind, shunned and spoke ill of them, she was still just as eager to hide her face from the truth and keep the line between human and non-human intact.

For all her talk, she was still afraid that she and her kind were little more than self-important fucks.

I never said it, but I knew. I knew what they all knew, in the deepest parts of themselves, but never dared to speak of. We felt, from hatred to anger to spite to sorrow to the deepest of heartaches, we felt. And somewhere in these prisons we knew we carried a soul of our own.

What we didn't know was what the defining line between ourselves and humans exactly was. What was missing that we followed the Master to the ends of the earth, what was it that we were so desperately trying to reach?

We…?

They. Not we. I never cared, at least not for a very long time, about becoming one of the endless swarm of insects, but I knew many of my "comrades" spent their long, sleepless nights wondering that question over and over into the dark.

I scowled at the sleeping infant in my arms, fighting back the urge to just wrap my hand around his soft little skull and squeeze until his eyes popped out of their sockets and his brains ran out of his ears in a bloody mess.

He was barely a year old, he had done nothing for himself, only fed off of his mother for nine months and then continued to feed off of her after. He made others take care of him, unable to do it himself. He would do nothing, could do nothing, that would be of any use for the next decade and a half. Perhaps even longer.

He was nothing, absolutely nothing beyond a screaming, selfish bundle of fat and flesh, what was it that made HIM so special?! Why was it that this little shit-factory had the RIGHT to call himself a human being?!

The screaming started up the second I dropped him into his cradle and slammed the door shut, storming down the hall and far away from the noise, knocking into the brat's mother as I passed. I must have made quite the ruckus, if I had pulled her from her limbo, the dark girl running to find and soothe her one and only child, to come to the rescue and chase his every hurt and fear away. I felt my lip curl upward in disgust, before shrugging it off.

No matter. He wouldn't have her much longer.

The thought made me smile.