Corpses
A/N: Prequel to Onnashisuji, hell revisited. One-shot. I tried to make the dialogues sound as formal and mature as possible. Forgive me.
In an alarming rate, the corpses turned unmoving; back to their original forms.
Scattered, littering the once grand ballroom.
Blackened blood, the stench of the dead perfumes the air.
Some may still be alive; still moving, moaning out curses and unidentifiable words—
But they are pinned down
By silver-etched bullets.
On their wrists, their ankles, their chests; still they continue to breathe dead air.
Gasping, gasping; they speak curses in an old language.
"Death shall become of you, thy blood splatter shall be marked with the curse of the ages, thoust soul shall be consumed by the wrath of the underlings in Hell."
"Honestly," An arrogant scoff, "Have you dared to stare at the eyes of The Gates?"
An incoherent mumble.
"As I've thought, you puppets—" A grand movement of the arm to show the rest of the desecrated hall, "Are nothing but mindless repetitions of human arrogance!"
"Just look at yourselves!" A pause, a mocking laugh, "Oh right, you can't look because you've got no eyes!"
A long stride, taking the heel and the weapon away from the corpse's head, it walked slowly whilst avoiding the rotting bodies, muttering words and sighs.
It stopped and sat cross-legged on one of the cleaner surfaces, a marble ledge on the stairs, "What else am I supposed to do with a room filled with decaying bodies?" It waved its weapon from left to right.
An arm suddenly sprang up; it looked in surprise with an unsuppressed smirk as the rest of the body followed.
The firearm was ready to shoot to the left hip, "Right, not all of them are—"
About five corpses flew in from the ballroom's front door. Crashing noisily and messily down the stairs, about to hit the sitting figure—
A single gunshot, a well-timed leap (but after a disappointed sigh), a silent landing on the same ledge, a wrist at the hip, "Now who in the world—?"
As if on cue, parades of lively corpses started charging (and tripping) down the steps, moaning and shouting and screaming—such noise.
The figure rolled its eyes and leapt upwards, to the (surprisingly clean) Swarovski chandelier. It held onto the very tip of the chandelier with one hand, shooting the incoming entities with another.
Dissatisfied with the number of them being accurately shot, it started swinging the chandelier for it to lift itself high enough to a higher ledge. After a few back-to-front swings, it let go and somersaults high into the air, landing on the ledge with its back to the chandelier. It now offers itself a smirk due to its graceful actions, before jumping backwards.
Time seemed to slow down as both of the figure's hands are now occupied with rapid-firing guns, perfectly digging silver-etched bullets into the skulls of the bodies below.
A loud clank echoed the empty hall as bodies crashed onto one another, creating a heaped pile of death and decay.
"No applause for me?" It sighed after a few seconds of holding a finishing position; its head high, arms outstretched and weapons shinning in all their glory.
Its eyes darted to a small spot and the figure immediately crouched on one knee, "Ugh, how could you be so carele—"
"There's something else here, something so sickeningly familiar."
Instinct played its part; her weapon was automatically raised to the door at the top;
"I mean you no harm," came as fluid and as thick as blood.
The figure looked up—
Slate black on crisp white, added on with silver chains and buttons; it was a sight for the blind. The head with hair on the boundary of unkempt and well-combed was acceptable enough. Although, the eyes let all good impression simmer away.
Compared to the figure, compared to her; the intruding force was cleaner. His was more pleasing to the eye—clean cut, straight and simple. His was not a navy blue corset with a black long-sleeved bolero, a black ballerina-ruffle skirt, black thigh-high socks, and an assortment of eccentric accessories (a blue and white butterfly headpiece, half a dozen of blue roses on the back, a blue garter with white lace on her thigh, a blue and black choker, and even her guns were decorated with a long white feather hanging from them)
"The horrendous pile here is your doing, I suppose?" He spoke up, obviously disgusted by the look of the room.
"Who else would it be?" The eccentrically-clothed figure now stood upright, guns kept behind her, forming a sort of ribbon-tail.
"Then it would be alright to say that you have done horribly." There was dispassion in his tone.
"And what of your doings? I would say you've forced those things to come here and make an even bigger commotion."
"They fear, yes, and so they run for safety." He paused, telling the next statement in mockery, "Alas, they came across you."
"Insulting."
"What of their fear, butler?" She made a name for him. "Are they any less human to feel fear? I think not, they are the undead; humans by all means."
"They charge at you for they do not feel fear, you are but a victim to them." He started descending the stairs, forcing her to calculate possibilities.
"They underestimated me greatly," A hand on her back, comfortable at the gun's grip. "A victim is what they saw; a victor is what they failed to see."
"Touché," He has fully descended now, looking down on the bodies as if they were trash, "but I wonder," slowly and cautiously, "How could one eye blind the other?"
And in that moment, silver cut past her ear. She cocked her head to the side; a knife was stabbed into the left eye of a now-dead body.
"How could I have missed—"
"A victor is what you think you are, but a survivor is all you'll be." The faked smile buries itself into the recesses of her mind.
"Are you mocking me, butler? Comparing me to a mere survivor?" She scowled and walked past the bodies.
"I am simply stating the obvious, even you are aware of it."
"You are begging for bullets through that skull of yours, I would gladly oblige but I have more important matters to attend to."
She stood beside him, both of them looking at opposite directions.
"Your alertness has become very limited, compared to before." She whispered before shooting a bullet to a head, cutting off a pained groan.
"Your precision can still be further improved." He replied back, turning his head to the bullet shells scattered—she missed a few.
"You're getting sloppy," She raised her chin, "At least defeat all of them at once."
"Teresa,"
"Sebastian,"
She walked past him, and ascended the stairs.
"Care to dine in hell tonight?"
"Hah, until we meet again, butler. You'll be served bullet shells and Glutton's intestines."
Disappear with the scream of the night.
A/N: It's finally done, but I can't really say that I'm happy with it, though.
Does this suck? Would anyone like another prequel? Or to have me make a "Prequel" series?
Reviews form rainbows.