A/N: Had this thing written since mid march. Thought, 'tis a draft, I'll rewrite it later - add stuff and such. Just re-read it and didn't find it too awful, just some typos, so here it is. Further notes at the bottom.
Don't own a thing. T because it touches/implies some mature elements (no surprise there, it's Overlord). Plus Albedo. I'm seriously thinking of upping to M just because of her.
Life, as usual – or at least, for most people – was monotonous. Predictable, depending on the perspective, or even dull, dare he say.
Every grey day is the same as the last and the same as the next. The sun barely visible beyond all that pollutant that covers the Earth, making the task of simply going outside all but impossible without re-breathers and goggles – nifty little things that are sold by the very same companies that made the air toxic in the first place.
Indeed, the air is so toxic that the most common form of suicide nowadays is just going on a walk without the re-breather. That is, for the unprivileged that live outside the Paradise Domes that sporadically dot the landscape. Which is to say, most of the population.
And also, most of the population is… "employed" in either underpaying and poor job conditions offices, or in very underpaying and abysmal job conditions on factories and the like – with obligatory unpaid extra hours, of course.
Which, understandably, makes people all kinds of ticking bombs from stress and burning hatred towards their bosses. And that is where the entertainment industry comes to play: with either very flashy movies or videogames, the average person can discharge their frustrations on a place with the least possible material damage.
He doesn't have to say who is behind the entertainment industry, because it's fairly obvious.
But an average person he is not – or at least, with their day-to-day struggles. Oh, don't misunderstand him, he isn't a super important rich man living on the utopian domes, not at all. He is just another one of those who work on one of the oldest jobs on history. Not the oldest, because that's reserved, but fairly old nevertheless. One point he does have in common with the average joe is that he didn't chose his job either, and that his pay is equally bad – but such are the ways of this world.
He is a trained assassin. A hitman, forced to work for a group of people he has never seen, that he knows not the names of, that have his life on their hands. And that is ever since he can remember.
The most common target are social agitators, followed by "shooting stars" from the "outside" who would be able to get into their sanctuary – and such a thing is unthinkable. For them, that is.
He stopped to care way, way back.
So, it is in common sense that his chosen hobby isn't the most popular- he has plenty of opportunities to vent his frustrations with violent methods, he quite honestly doesn't see the appeal of submerging himself in even more violence in his rare off-times. And considering that in his profession, friends are a no go and his life is monitored 24/7 by his "benefactors" – which is a badly concealed way of disposing of him if he is deemed a liability. Not that he cares.
His off times must be a boring thing to watch for a security guard.
His life off the job, as usual, is mostly the same. A fairly comfortable chair in his living room, looking towards the window that was projecting a view of a 3D rendered boreal forest instead of its usual grey and smoggy view of the skyscraper a scant metres away. A bookcase, a fairly ancient concept full of books, another thing that is almost no more, considering that the newest book he owns is over a century old. And that's where most of his meagre salary went to.
Those books don't follow a pattern on their contents – well except for the fact that none have any point to make him remember the reality of the present. Biology of species long extinct, with a big part of it dedicated on Botany, tomes of History, to a certain point, somewhere in the early 2000's, Music Theory, Psychology, to even novels of different kinds – Fantasy being a dominant one due to the sheer popularity of them back when books were a thing, but not without a significant portion of those novels belonging to other genres.
Even the most mundane work printed on these pages back when they were written, now feel completely alien – in his opinion, it's refreshing.
Hours upon hours of just sitting there, reading on a world that once was, but today only its carcass remains. He even has red romantic novels, and he found out of many things with erotica. Many concepts that are so strange, but quite obviously in the past were so common.
He sighed many times throughout his life – what if, what if. What if he was born two hundred years prior, would he have experienced a "normal life"? Going to school and study the same subjects he reads on his free time, having a "family", making "friends", even finding a "companion"? Being able to just walk out without a worry of dying of poisoning within ten minutes? Exploring forests? Eating food different than gel?
Not that he has ever expressed such thoughts out loud. Such thing would shorten his life to a few hours in the best case scenario.
He was doing just that, reading a book chosen at random, when he was notified of his next job. He closed the book and carefully placed it back into its place, changed clothes, and got to it.
The job was fairly simple. Extermination of the objective and any and all persons close to him. As usual, not reasons as to why – that was not needed for his job, but after so many years doing this, he deducted that the objective had gotten his nose where it didn't belong. And seemingly got away with even a scrap of information, enough to warrant the termination of other people.
Investigation must had concluded that none of the target's on-line acquaintances had any knowledge of that information whatsoever, so none of them had been reported to him.
That's good – he doesn't have to go the extra mile to kill people that could and most likely would be in the other side of the country. And, he supposes, it's also good news for the target's on-line friends. Not that he cares.
And when he got to it, he was caught off guard when the target blurted out those cursed words. He had already terminated all other side targets, and was about to finish the job, but in a moment of spite in the target's part, he learned of the information that was the cause of this job on the first place.
His numbness didn't recede. He didn't care.
But it was the end of the line.
He cleaned up as best as he could, and didn't even bother trying to run. He didn't even bother to go back to his little apartment – in fact, he didn't want the books to suffer any kind of damage, so the more distant the better.
Not even half an hour later, his executioner made herself present. She was just like him, in many ways, he could see in her face. She didn't care. To be honest, he didn't, either.
"Any last words, H8-42?" She asked in a monotonous tone – she wanted to get this over with.
He merely shook his head in negative. He also wanted to get this over with.
And so it did.
Or, would be more accurate, should. For all intents and purposes he should have ceased to exist.
But no such thing happened. True, he saw nothing, he heard nothing. But he could feel it, the most intense heat he has ever experienced, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Slowly but surely, it chipped away his numbness. Seeing as he didn't really have a choice, like always, he let himself onto the welcoming arms of that warm dream.
In between awareness and blissful unconsciousness, the world reshaped itself around him. Vibrant colours in shapeless blobs, soft fabrics at his very sensitive sense of touch, and the most deliciously pure air he has ever inhaled, much more than he ever imagined it being in the Paradise Domes. And sometimes, that strange blob of white and black and a speck of yellow, with that indescribable smell that made him feel all those indescribable feelings. Was it affection or disgust? A feeling of… safeness? The warmness he feels with that blob is the only thing he is sure of.
So much time passed like that, that could be either an eternity or just a year, he couldn't be sure. The days passed with all being the same, yet different to those previous bland, grey days. Despite the fact that all were the same, they didn't feel monotonous.
As his vision got better and his ability to form coherent thoughts became easier, he became aware of his surroundings. Even when he was confined to a single room for who knows where, with very few people as company, he didn't feel that dreadful numb monotony.
Sure, he had pieced those pieces together and he reached to the conclusion that he had reincarnated – a concept that was so cliché in many novels he had read, particularly from the early 2000's. Was this the result of him wishing for experiencing a better world? And enjoyable world?
He couldn't be sure, but he didn't think so.
The room he became so accustomed to was opulently decorated, but on good taste, he supposed. It didn't make him flinch from the "horrendous waste of extremely pricy material in a senseless and ugly decoration" like the protagonists of many novels he has read would complain.
Other than that, the room sported a variety of very fine furniture, including his… ah, what would that be? A crib? He supposed, he has never seen one before. Continuing, there is a very luxurious-looking couch, a very ornamental desk with a constant moderate pile of papers, and a bed that could only be described as queen sized (and decorated), which belonged to the other inhabitant of the room.
For all intents and purposes, she was the first mother he ever had. His previous life lacked one, so he has never experienced having one. And, quite ironically, his mother was literally a demon (if the horns and the wings are any indication), but she is the person that has treated him best in his whole life (or lives) – imagine that, a demon being more "humane" than humans.
He wondered if this wasn't the afterlife and he got reborn as a demon for his actions while he was alive. He has read on the different interpretations of hell from different religions – and most of the time, murderers were condemned to the underworld.
Not that he had believed in any of those religions, but they were interesting – most of them saw their genesis before the death of the Earth, and all preached for values very different than the ones in the real world.
Interesting would be, that there was an afterlife. So many possibilities. And, who were humans, then, to decide if any of the afterlives were bad? Because, compared to his admittedly little interaction with the other side, the "human world" was a hundred fold worse than this "hell".
It was a weird experience, having someone care for him. She was most of the time –that he was aware of – in the same room, either actively looking after him, making clothes that he supposed were for him, or dutifully breezing over the paperwork that had piled on her desk.
He never saw how it got there, and never seen how it got out, but the sight of his mother mercilessly annihilating all that paperwork was a sight to behold.
After a half an hour of tedious work, Albedo was ready to recharge herself with the affection of her child.
It was a funny thing, not too long ago, she couldn't envision caring so much for anyone aside from Ainz-sama, or better said, Momonga-sama. Once, she had daydreamed on a regular basis about having an Heir for him, but deep down, she had doubts of that ever happening.
It was only after Demiurge had informed her that Demiurge had "overheard" Ainz-sama (in as much as what he most certainly let Demiurge know on purpose) debating with himself about the future of the Tomb.
Demiurge said that Ainz-sama was contemplating "who should be in charge of the realm's future" where something may happen to him. As much as that thought terrified her, if the man she loves and Master was considering that something out there may be strong enough to defeat him, what could she realistically do?
Demiurge then heard that Ainz-sama, after thinking thoroughly, had out-loud stated that "Yes, Albedo would be the better option".
She had blushed lightly at the implication, and the state of affairs outside pieced together with that little bit of information had painted a very compelling picture for Albedo.
It had been true that there had been no direct plans for the time being of continuing the conquest of the New World, as the Master had called it, and it was after a while that Albedo was puzzled on the reason.
And it was right in her face all along. He was waiting for her.
Demiurge could barely make Albedo listen to him before she rushed at full speed towards the Royal Bedroom, mainly because he said that he had the preparations complete for the creation of the Heir. It seemed that he had completed one of his side projects using his test subjects on his farm. But she didn't get the details, because at that moment she didn't care of anything else either.
Entering the room, she had noticed that the scent of her Lord had intensified many times over, making her face flush even more, if such a thing was even possible.
But what greeted her eyes was the sight of a not so bony, but recognizable still Overlord – and the first expression she could discern on his face, was of surprise. Poor Momonga-sama, waiting so long must have made him think she was never going to go.
But Albedo is nothing if not eager for her master.
What followed was a night that Albedo would never, ever forget.
And would never, ever stop rubbing in the face of that vulgar vampire.
A/N: So, yeah. That. Don't know if I'll continue - I certainly have some ideas, but I have other two dozen ideas that I'll like to work on on different fandoms. I don't know how I would name the character. I was thinking on Asura, after one of the original bosses of Nazarick - plus it keeps on the 'A' thing on both parents 'names' (Ainz and Albedo). I dunno, but suggestions are welcome.
Thanks for reading.