A Hundred and Eighty

Summary: It's a sad day when a man discovers death to be a more comforting prospect than clean living. Drabblish.

AN: This is a Malcolm story. That's right, Malcolm. I'm not expecting a lot of readers/reviewers for this fic, but it's been demanding that I write it so here I go. Unrelated note, I have this craving to read Tymmie and Cassandra fanfics, but alas! There aren't any! So I decided to write some more, but I have no inspiration! Any ideas for one please?

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Malcolm could safely say, that he always knew that choices and decisions would be the death of him. His existence, in a certain way, had been an entirely simplistic one, one that had never warranted choice before. He was a soldier, he was given orders. He followed orders ruthlessly, such was his life. In fact, Malcom was so efficient at following orders, which the others were too weak to stomach, that he quickly made the rank of Regulator. And once he became a despicable, powerful creature, then his true colors began to show.

It's true that Malcolm was a killer. He was merciless, cruel, and determined. There were no exceptions, when the Atrox commanded him, he was compelled to see the command completed far beyond expectations. Inside of his soul there lay an unquenchable bloodlust, which most assumed was the result of a once Viking heritage and a hopeless existence, a retaliation of sorts for the cold hand of fate.

But most assumptions were far misplaced. Malcolm was not like the others. He did not kill or torture because he wanted to make others suffer the way he had once suffered. He did not hold some poignant, redeeming past that somehow compensated for his misgivings and flaws. There was no one to place the blame upon the monstrosity of his character, aside from himself. And he relished within it. He was a soldier. He was a warrior. He did not need humanities' sympathies or condolences.

Malcolm was indestructible.

But such is the good lady Fate, that when one is soaked in their own hybris and invulnerability to conscience or morality, she forces them to face the unrelenting slap of destiny.

Malcolm, heartless Regulator, knew that he was going to die soon. He knew that he was going to die because he declared that it would never happen. If there ever was something the almighty ones hated, it was arrogance. And Malcolm had more than his share of arrogance.

So upon recognition of his own mortality, Malcolm did what all sinners do when their time has come.

He decided that it would be an opportune time to find faith.

Of course, the Dark Goddess of the Moon, Hecate, was the prime choice. She had ties of darkness akin to those of a Follower, she was the one that guided the 'lost souls', and more importantly, her heart was as soft as a child's. A notable weakness, in Malcolm's book.

The dying Regulator played the game, he pleaded forgiveness, he promised to atone- the intention never necessarily had to be placed along with the promises, and he vouched for a peaceful passage away from Tartarus, where he of course deserved to go.

And Hecate, gentle, foolish Hecate fell for it. Not at first, for she offered for him to live a clean, honest life, to repent.

But Malcolm could only resist the snort of degradation at her gracious alternative. Death was more preferable to the sacrifice of his mannerisms. He appealed this option, and so Hecate was left with no other choice than to utilize the wasting hopeless creature as a messenger to one that still held the promise of reform.

And as she gave him both the ring and departing words, Hecate could only reflect on how it was a sad day when a man discovers death to be a more comforting prospect than clean living.