A/N: Hello lads and lassies! I was sitting in my room, hanging out, struggling for a new subject to write about. so, here goes. One thing though. This chapter is cut into three characters, just for now. However, in the stories ahead, I'll just use one character. Tell me if you don't think it works. Feedbackgood.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, aside from my three characters who were doubtless influenced by someone else.
i. Introductions
The world is weak. My father is weak, my mother is weak, my siblings are weak, everyone is. Only I am strong. My name is Tom Alex Ross, the son of the famous Taylor Ross, the Dark Wizard slayer. But now he can't save anyone. He's dead.
If anyone had known him, they would have known about the soul sword, the light equivalent of a Horcrux. They would say "no, Taylor's not dead, he's just reforming. He'll be back to kick butt." They're wrong. I destroyed the sword. I found it, broke it, and killed him with the shards. Now, those shards are my most prized trophies.
His entire family is dead, except for me. I am living, and there are none who are more powerful. The only person who may have been stronger was a man by the name of Voldemort, and he was destroyed. I am not weak like him. I have studied the ancient dark arts. I can stop time, kill with a thought, imprison my enemies, and free allies. I have done so.
My lieutenant's name is Draco Malfoy. He is a sniveling wretch, partially insane from his own imprisonment, one that my father had placed him in. But he is cruel, merciless, and totally obedient. And he wants revenge. Revenge on my father's charge. Harry Potter. He will die, if only to torture my father's spirit.
I have a weapon though. A gift, I suppose, that my father gave me. I cannot be harmed by magic. My father was great because he had a natural resistance, and that has been passed on to me. No-one can touch me. I am invincible. But I am not sated. I need more power, more magic. And I know how to get it.
It's been five years since the creature known as Talomsos Rex came to earth from another plane. He is a monster, something warped. He was once human, but the demons of the other plane warped him. He's a horrible being, and he took over England, and all the surrounded islands. He's stopped there though.
All the heroes of old are dead. Sirius Black, Rudy Blackthorn, Alastor Moody, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks Lupin, Taylor Ross, all of them. Know one knows what happened to the younger wizards. Sometimes their friends show up, but they're always found and killed.
It's a dark place. My father was a soldier in the Scottish Army, and fought. But he was killed, just like everyone else. He left me with one thing though. A piece of metal, a piece of some old sword. He had told me to keep it, and to place it where it belonged. I decided it would bring in a lot of money, if it was sold to the right museum.
By the way, my name is William Bruce. I know, two Scottish heroes in one, but I like it. I'm about sixteen, and I'm an orphan now. My mom was killed when they found out she was part of the resistance. They are Rex's police group, led by a man named Draconis. It's very cliché, but he deserves the name. He's an evil bastard, and he's the one who personally blew my mom up. After he had his way. I don't want to talk about it.
Being a bounty hunter nowadays is actually pretty lucrative. There are lots of wizards that are wanted, and the king's troops can't play cards for shit. My name is Tony Whirly. It's one of the stupidest names ever, which is why people that want to live call me "Death", or "The Dark Angel". I like it, and it fits me. I am Death.
But what the king's idiot men don't realize is that even if they're dark, an angel's an angel. I have major ties to the underground, and when they have bounties on their heads, I send them off to somewhere nice, like Bermuda. The bounty isn't collected, but I still get paid, which is always good.
My angelic swords are my guns. Custom Kimbler .450 handguns. Not quite military issue, but they're fast, powerful, and accurate. I've been known to take full-grown wizards out from one hundred yards, and then turn and do the same to another guy, without aiming.
If my guns are my holy (unholy, whatever) swords, my holy hand-grenade is my personal invention. It's like a smoke bomb, but instead of smoke, it has magic. Some erupt into gas, fire, water, shrapnel that sings, whatever. Some can heal, some can hurt. Most hurt. A lot.
I don't like the new world order anymore than anyone else. But the strong survive, and the weak don't it's tough, but it's true. And I ain't going to be one of the weak ones.