A lovely response to the first chapter, short as it was, so thank you for that. This one is much closer to the proper length you can expect for these chapters, so that's good.
For all of the reviews that expressed their interest in where this is going, I assure you it will be very unlike most other things. It will be a challenge for me, as this is wholly out of my comfort zone, but one that will hopefully be intriguing nevertheless.
Now for some more specific responses. To the reviewer who commented on the seemingly thoughtless actions of Salem in just opening a box plastered with ancient warning signs and durable enough to survive a nuclear blast. You bring up a very valid point, actually, one that is sort of addressed in this chapter. It's mainly for two reasons. The first is that, like you pointed out, she is confident that should whatever is in there be hostile, she can handle it. I have this fun headcannon the Salem is like Ozpin, slightly different in that rather than transferring her spirit, she simply constructs a new body for herself. This is why she's so hard to kill, and the Grimm are so hard to stop. The second is that, to some extent, she knows what's inside the box. As you'll see, the Doom Slayer and Salem have a strange kind of empathy for one another, being so similar. She almost sees that it could very easily be her in that box, and is as sympathetic as something like her can be to the Doom Slayer's plight.
To the guy who mentioned that he preferred his Doom Slayer to be more heroic (but was interested nevertheless), I respect that. Silent Protagonists are, by definition, blank slates for the player to project themselves or their own characters onto. Everyone's Doom Slayer is different, and it is very easy to interpret the Doom Slayer's story as a hero, fighting to defend humanity against the demonic hordes.
And last, but definitely not least, the guy who launched into a frankly beautiful rant about the Doom Slayer's exploits, in block caps nevertheless. I'd seriously recommend you just check out the reviews tab and go and read it because aside from giving me a good laugh, it's actually kind of poetic. My personal favourite was 'HE MAKES SATAN CHECK FOR HIM UNDER HIS BED', but that's beside the point. Unfortunately, Salem will not be getting the Doom Slayer's personal brand of justice. As satisfying as that would be for me to write and you to read, it would make this fic very short and almost boring as the Doom Slayer just runs around and kills every Grimm he sees, and probably a good portion of the Atlesian Military and the assorted Huntsmen and Huntresses too.
With that aside, let us begin once more.
"Could you repeat that?" Cinder's voice was kept perfectly level, but even a fool would be able to detect the undercurrent of surprise in her voice.
"The Queen is currently entertaining a guest", Watts repeated, arms clasped behind his back and his posture impeccable, "We have strict orders not to disturb her unless it is of the utmost importance".
Cinder put a hand to her chin, ignoring Watts' verbal jab, and pondered the possibilities of this new development. It had certainly never happened before, and for all intents and purposes should never have happened at all. After all, no sane human would come to visit Salem's domain, leading her to believe that it was in fact simply another one of her comrades' word games.
Perhaps she had caught a particularly annoying huntsman or huntress, and was torturing him or her personally to show her pleasure. Perhaps with Tyrian, it seemed like something the sick little excuse for a man would enjoy.
"I understand" she said at last, "My report can wait until her majesty's business is finished. There is no reason to rush, after all".
His message delivered, Watts nodded curtly and turned on his heel, striding off deeper into the bowels of the castle.
Cinder's lips curled up into an intrigued smile. Emerald and Mercury were not with her, as she had given them a task to eliminate a particularly troublesome Mob Boss operating out of Vale. With all the major players removed, she would have total dominance over the Valian underworld, allowing the next phase of her plan to begin.
Still the Queen's entertainment intrigued her. She would not dare to disobey what was clearly a command straight from the queen herself, regardless of her dislike for the messenger.
That did not mean she couldn't find out more about the situation. Information was power after all.
Cinder turned and stalked away, half a Maiden's powers coiling around her fingertips in anticipation.
Salem stared.
The Doom Slayer stared back.
He was seated in the largest chair she had been able to find, and still it creaked under the sheer weight of the hulking seven foot tall monstrosity before her.
"You are a monster" it was a statement of fact. Both of them knew it to be true.
"So-", there was a burst of static, followed by a sickening gargle and a hacking cough of pain, "You… also".
"You are unused to this", she deduced, "Conversation. The simple act of talking is alien to you.".
He looked at her for a long minute, then nodded.
"Demons?" he asked, forcing the word out like poison, partly due to his ruined vocal chords. She felt the ever-present tempest of rage surrounding him spike at the mere utterance of the word.
"That is why you gave up your humanity? To slaughter one race above all others until there is nothing left but ashes?" She felt her own emotions peak, the thought of the race that had driven her to do the same causing and ugly stab of rage in her heart, and felt him react in response to it.
"You…", she could practically feel her own expression mirrored on his face, "Like me"
"We are alike", it was barely above a whisper, but it confirmed what she'd already known. What she'd known from the moment that she'd lain eyes on the sarcophagus and felt the creature inside stir.
She was an existence that could no longer be called human, although that had been what she was, once. For the purpose of her vengeance, she'd cast away her humanity to wreak havoc on the flawed, diseased human race. They had taken everything from her, torn her down to the basest level any creature could reach, and she punished them for every ounce of pain they'd inflicted.
The horrified look in the traitor's eyes when he'd first laid eyes on her new form was one she would savour for the rest of her existence.
For the first hundreds of years she'd rampaged wildly, raging like a beast as she tore kingdoms and empires from their foundations, her creations tearing through the streets of shining cities as they slaughtered humans by the thousand.
Oh, they had not gone quietly. Every time the traitor raised armies to oppose her, shining heroes and heroines, whose names would be sung for centuries to come. The greatest champions of every civilisation came before her, wielding weapons of legends and with the collective hope of humanity at their backs.
She tore every one of them limb from limb.
Every time it repeated. She'd kill Ozpin, and he'd resurface like the parasite he was, infecting another unwitting human and returning to lead the charge. She could surround a city, slaughter every human that tried to escape and raze the whole thing to the ground, and some humans still managed to escape, to live another day.
Those humans would multiply, and soon another empire would return. So she'd retreated, learned tactics and strategy, rather than remain a rampaging beast and never be able to truly hunt down her opponents. This time, she would completely obliterate them, not only physically, but mentally.
They'd played right into her trap, allowing themselves to be corralled into four major population centres, ones that they foolishly believed to be safe in.
She would disabuse them of that notion.
But for now that was all irrelevant. Plans hundreds of years in the making were momentarily shelved in favour of focusing on the creature before her. To find something so much like her.
An alien feeling stirred in the remains of what a human would call her heart. The desperate hope for companionship that had been ignored for millennia resurfacing with a vengance.
"I would very much like to hear your story", she said, "and I believe you would like to hear mine".
"Throat" he rasped, pointing at the heavily damaged organ in question, the true extent of the no doubt gruesome damage hidden underneath the armour, "Can heal… faster."
She motioned for him to continue.
"Souls" he intoned, before breaking into another coughing fit.
"You consume souls?" she questioned, "Truly?"
The solemn nod she received was all the confirmation she needed that he was dead serious.
"That... why. Am calm. No…" Another rasping cough, followed by a visceral gurgle, "No, berserk"
She understood immediately. That was why he responded as he did to Grimm, to her in particular. That had been the price of her transformation, her 'soul'. The Grimm, born from her will, were equally 'soulless'. The reaction she had assumed to be rage was in fact not that at all.
It was curiosity. He was simply curious as to what could have no soul. The rage had been his natural state of being.
"Come with me" she requested (a foreign feeling for her, usually it was an order), and he stood up, the chair giving a final creak, almost like a sigh of relief.
He regarded his seat for a moment, before nodding to her, and following her deeper into the castle.
There was a rather large disparity between their steps, she noted.
His were loud and heavy, practically shaking the corridor every time they fell. The bulky armour he was clad did nothing to assuage this, the whir of the circuits inside accompanying every movement.
"That armour…" she mused aloud, her own, near silent steps giving the impression that she was gliding across the floor.
"Demon… forged" he answered, driving the words through his ruined throat, "Like… servants. Yours. Human. Dis… disposed of".
Or in more lucid terms, 'Forged by Demons, who I used like you use your servants, before killing them'.
She smiled at that. It was an apt comparison. After all, eventually all of those under her command would be killed too, regardless of their utility. The principle was similar, bearing the existence of that which you hated in order to use them as a weapon against their own kind. Or, in his case, allowing it to live for long enough to forge the ultimate weapon for him. It did not take a genius to figure out what had happened to the demon in question.
There were many questions, of course. What exactly were 'Demons'? She had often heard her own creatures called by that name, but from the Doom Slayer's reaction to her, they were completely separate entities.
It was a fascinating concept. Did other races besides humans and faunus exist? If so, how many were there, scattered in the far corners of the world?
They rounded a corner, and saw what they had come for.
A group of three soldiers, dressed in the uniform of the White Fang and standing at attention opposite a door. Inside was Sienna Khan, the puppet leader of their organisation, deep in discussion with Hazel about the specifics of their 'patronage'.
She could feel the fear build as they caught sight of her companion, and then reach a crescendo as they caught sight of her.
It was highly unusual for anyone besides those within her inner circle being within her compound, and to preserve it's secrecy no doubt these three would be killed anyway, likely by either Watts or Tyrian, upon leaving the building. Khan would live, but Hazel would be keeping a far closer eye on her for any sign of betrayal, and even the slightest slip that revealed anything would the grounds for her termination and replacement
The three Grunts had drawn the unfortunate 'short straw' of being the least important people in the building at the time. Perhaps had Cinder's pawns accompanied her; they could have used them instead, rather than risk jeopardising the fledgling relationship with the White Fang.
She would have informed him as to their purpose, but to entities such as them, when presented with three defenceless creatures, there was very little else that could be done with them.
He let out a howl of pain and rage, one that spoke of madness and bloodthirst, before lowering his head and charging down the hallway like a bull.
One tried to raise his gun at the charging Doom Slayer, but he was far too slow. He was the first to be hit, the simple act of running into him enough to shatter his aura and likely several of his ribs.
The unfortunate grunt crumpled to the ground, screaming in agony before being hoisted over the Doom Slayer's head, grasped in both hands.
Then he pulled.
The screaming Faunus was rent in two, intestines and gore raining down on his assailant, who roared in glee. Salem's crimson eyes narrowed as fragments of… something flew out of the corpse, only to be sucked towards the berserking creature and seemingly absorbed.
The top half of the Faunus was slammed onto the floor with a wet splat, and an enormous boot was buried into his head and chest, leaving behind the pulverised remains of what had once been a functioning body.
Slowly, the monster, caked from head to toe in gore, rose upwards, turning its emotionless gaze on the trembling White Fang grunts, both armed with the curved swords given out as standard issue by the terrorist organisation.
And then suddenly there was a gun in his hands, seemingly pulled from nowhere. It was a shotgun, a simple tool that looked practically primitive in comparison to the armour, it's two long barrels screeching with the bloodlust of a thousand kills by its wielder's hand. It was aimed at the Faunus and allowed to sing.
The buckshot carved into the two, obliterating the top half of the closest Faunus, leaving behind little more than a fine red mist and bloody torso.
The other was not so lucky. He staggered backwards, clutching his bloody chest and wheezing in agony. The Doom Slayer stalked forwards, seized the final grunts neck and lifted him off the ground.
"P-please", the man begged, his words barely recognisable through the tears on his face and the lead in his lungs.
A squeeze of the fist snapped his neck like a twig, and the suddenly lifeless corpse was tossed aside like trash. More of whatever it was the Doom Slayer consumed from the souls was produced, and Salem noted a distinct correlation between the level of violence involved in the death and the amount of energy he received from it. The Faunus who'd died to the shotgun blast had dropped a paltry two of the healing fragments, while his bifurcated and subsequently brutalised counterpart had dropped over five of them.
"You are healed?" she asked, her tone the same as ever. The brutalisation of humans and faunus alike was not something new to her, and many a time it had been herself tearing through them like wet tissue paper.
"I am", he spoke, now without the rasping lilt that had interceded all of their previous conversations. His voice, now healed, resonated in a deep baritone, only accentuated by the suit's speakers.
"Then let us go".
And with that they walked on, uncaring of the brutalised bodies left in their wake. No doubt this would affect Sienna greatly, whether for better or for worse remained to be seen. On the one hand, the intimidation factor involved could benefit their negotiations greatly, but that all depended on her personality type, which she had a decidedly lacking knowledge of, having never met the woman herself.
But that was for Hazel to deal with. For now though there were more interesting things to focus on. She turned to her companion, his thunderous steps resuming as he matched his pace with hers.
"Then, let us talk. What exactly is a Demon?"
There was a pause.
"A Demon is brutal, without mercy…"
Cinder restrained herself from sighing in exasperation as Tyrian Callows strolled down the corridor towards her, a disturbingly wide grin plastered on his face.
"Hello my dear" he crowed as she approached, "Isn't it such a wonderful day?"
Her lips curled up in disgust. Tyrian was, in her view, the worst kind of scum. Zealously devoted to Salem, he was the type to happily kidnap, murder, torture and kill at Salem's command, and often without it in increasingly macabre attempts to please his Queen.
But more than that, he had no ambition, no drive to be anything better than he already was unless it improved his standing in the eyes of Salem. Even Watts, who mocked her relentlessly as incompetent, who poked holes in her schemes and humiliated her in front of the Queen, had drive, ambition and intelligence that she could admire, albeit begrudgingly. Tyrian had none of those, making him little more than a thug in her mind. An absurdly capable thug, but a thug nevertheless.
"Hello, Tyrian" she smiled as sweetly as she could manage, "I assume that this means her majesty is pleased with you".
Tyrian beamed, like a child being told that their parent was proud of their school project.
"Yes, yes she is!" he cheered happily, as if someone else acknowledging his success enhanced his joy, "I knew that my gift would please her so and it did! Oh, it did!"
"Oh? A gift?" she asked, trying to sound as uninterested as possible. When ranting like he was now, Tyrian was one of the best sources of information on the happenings within Salem's castle, and she fully intended to milk him for all he knew.
"A great tomb, of unparalleled beauty and rage. Oh, it was like sweet honey to my lady's creatures, but they were keeping it from her, yes they were", another maniacal laugh, "I took it from their cold dead hands, and carried it all the way back here to my lady! And now the good Doctor tells me that she Is most pleased with my work! Oh, happy day!"
Fighting back a grimace at Tyrian's preferred dramatic rhetoric.
"A tomb?" she asked, curiosity piqued, "it must have contained something great for the Queen to be so interested in it"
"Oh, yes! Oh, yes! The Doctor tells me it was covered in warning, proclamations of calamity for all who attempted to open it! But they were nothing before my Queen. She tore it open without hesitation and accepted my wondrous gift inside with great joy!"
Cinder frowned. Something wasn't adding up here. Salem was incredibly cautious and calculating, almost by default. It went against every fibre of her being to simply tear open an ancient tomb covered in warnings. That meant that she either already knew what was inside, or that she deemed the value of the contents greater than the risk of opening it, or perhaps both.
All in all, a fascinating puzzle. One that she fully intended to solve.
"She was even so happy that she tore apart those pathetic scum that dared to set foot in her wondrous palce. Oh, they were far too unworthy to even be addressed by my queen, and so were shredded most violently!" he doubled over into mad giggles at the though of the violence in question, and Cinder stared at him in barely concealed disgust.
But another part of her questioned the validity of Tyrian's statement. Veyone in the building at that moment was considered part of Salem's 'Inner Circle' and thus too valuable to simply kill. That meant that whoever had died was not one of them, but an intruder?
Her thoughts were cut off by the pounding rhythm of (what she assumed to be) footsteps. Slowly, they drew nearer and nearer, until they rounded the end of the corridor.
Her mistress cam around, skin an unnaturally pristine white, contrasted by the black veins that spread up to frame her face. She was elegant as always, drifting across the floor with nobility befitting one such as her. Her eyes held the cunning and ruthlessness necessary to manipulate the entire world on such a scale, and her posture demonstrated that for all her matchless intellectual might, she was far from weak or defenceless. She was deadly grace personified, absurdly powerful yet restrained, cunning and wise.
The thing beside her was anything but.
It was enormous, a full head taller than Salem and half again as wide. It was shaped like a man, but from the moment she laid eyes on it, she knew that whatever it was that was contained within the dull green suit of fortress-like armour could not be called human. Its face was entirely concealed by the suit's helmet, but Cinder could feel the unrestrained malice and brutality that lurked just beneath the calm veneer it presented.
'The Queen is currently entertaining a guest"
Watts' words echoed in her mind. At the time, she'd wondered what kind of being could warrant Salem's undivided attention for any period of time, and remain in her company out of want, rather than necessity. Tyrian was one, but whatever bloodlust Tyrian showed was easily eclipsed and dwarfed by the absolute fury bubbling beneath the titanic armour.
The two appeared to be in deep conversation, and Salem nodded her assent to something.
"Fascinating…" Salem wondered aloud, before finally noticing their presence and coming to a stop. The thunderous rhythm of the armour's footsteps came to a stop with a final thud.
"Ah, Tyrian", Salem smiled ever so slightly at the faunus in question, the movement of her lips so miniscule it could barely be called a smile, "I am most pleased with you"
"Thank you, my Queen!", Tyrian practically cheered, bowing low and looking for all intents and purposes like he might actually start crying. It would have been amusing if it weren't so sickening.
"We shall discuss the specifics of your reward another time. For now, I wish to introduce the both of you to my guest, "she gestured at the hulking figure of steel and rage, partially covered in what Cinder realised was recently dried blood and looking like the worst guest anyone could possibly imagine, "Consider him a… visiting noble".
That final remark was directed at Tyrian, but also at Cinder. It was one of the many reasons why she admired Salem as she did. The skill to manipulate words to such an extent, to twist sentences into subliminal messages unique to the individual beholding them was what she aspired to, and often used to great effect with Emerald and Mercury.
For Tyrian, the phrase was very literal. His twisted world view meant that being considered 'nobility' by his queen was denoting of a person he should respect. This was evidenced when Tyrian took a low, sweeping bow and introduced himself emphatically to the new arrival.
For her, it also denoted respect, but in a far more subtle manner. The essence of one who was considered 'noble' by Salem was the antithesis to everything te word meant. It denoted her respect for that individual, and by extension was a command for Cinder to treat him with respect as well.
Tyrian struck up an enthusiastic conversation, or as enthusiastic as he could make it when his conversation partner refused to talk. She, meanwhile, turned to her mistress.
"My lady, who is this?" she asked her, drawing beside her respectfully as she observed the armoured titan point to the back of his knee joint, apparently showing Tyrian a particularly devastating way to sever the muscles there.
Salem turned her cold, apathetic gaze to her, though there was the briefest flicker of something across her normally stony visage.
"A guest of mine", she answered smoothly, betraying nothing, "He shall not be included in any plans, by you or by any of the others. I fear he will not remain here long anyhow".
If the mere fact that there was someone in Salem's company did not send alarm bells ringing in her head, then that statement was. Everyone was a part of Salem's machinations, from the lowest orphans on the streets of Vacuo to the highest ranked generals of the Atlesian military, no one was safe from her plots.
To have anyone, let alone a no-name stranger clad in a suit of armour that would make any scientist drool and apparently highly effective in combat, excluded was highly unusual.
"As you wish", she returned just as smoothly, although inside her mind was racing, trying to decipher exactly what was going on, and how she could best use the situation to her advantage.
"How fascinating!" Tyrian exclaimed, as his conversation partner gestured to the gap in plating between his collarbone and his neck, then made a violent snapping motion, "Truly you are a master of the Visceral Arts! I simply must try some of your techniques for myself".
He turned to Salem, "My queen, if I may be-"
"You are excused, Tyrian. Please do as you wish. I shall call for you if I need you".
Tyrian clapped his hands together twice in joy, before bowing low, "My Queen is too kind. This humble servant shall take his leave". Then with that proclamation he bounded down the corridor, away to 'test' whatever sick technique he had devised. Cinder shuddered at the thought of the innocents who would no doubt be his subjects.
"You are also excused, Cinder. I shall hear your report later, in private".
Cinder nodded her understanding, and the strange pair continued off down the corridor, Salem's graceful, near silent steps an almost laughable contrast with the crashing footfalls of the titan.
Their conversation began again, but whatever Salem was asking it was lost underneath the rumble of its footsteps.
Cinder watched their backs recede with a frown, before turning and walking away herself. She needed time to think, to further plan around this new arrival, and how it would affect her long term plans.
Autumn was looking to be rather lovely, after all.
The Doom Slayer found himself confused.
This alone was a rather unusual thing for him, as it was rare for him to feel any other emotion than the undying rage that dominated his every waking moment, but that was exactly what had happened.
And it was because of Salem.
Salem, the soulless abomination so very much like him, who'd given up everything in favour of slaughtering the entire race that had wronged her. The fact that it was humanity rather than demons bothered him little. After all, neither of them were human any longer, and he had found from experience that humans could often be as atrocious as the demons.
Yet it was in a different way. Where the atrocities performed by the demons were highly visceral and gory in nature, vivid sacrifices and mass slaughters, humans were far more cunning. Their misdeeds came from the knife in the back of the worker, the fat politician who sat on high laughing while other humans starved in the streets. What they lacked in physical might the made up for in intellectual prowess, and it manifested in their actions.
That was not to say that either race was lacking in their weaker areas. The demons remained cunning enough to devise the trap that had captured him, after all, playing to his mindless rage and sacrificing thousands of their own to trap him beneath the collapsing temples of Hell.
Equally humans could prove powerful physically too. They had managed to fight and kill demons for a significant time, holding back the tides of hell as best they could before they were finally overwhelmed by the relentless hordes.
Perhaps that was why him and his new companion differed so greatly. They had been nearly identical, once, both rampaging monsters blinded by hate and rage. He had been able to remain that way, for the demons cared not for trickery or shadowy plots. They would charge him, relentless and unyielding, and he would tear them limb from limb.
She, however, had been forced to change. Remaining a mindless beast would have lead to her capture and subsequent imprisonment, much like his own, only far sooner into her lifespan. So she had adapted, harnessing her rage into a potent weapon that could strike from the shadows as easily as it could rip through flesh. She commanded armies to perform her work for her, rather than risk her own life to a human plot.
He had once been gifted the power to consume souls, be they demon or human, and use them to empower himself. It made it so that every kill made him stronger, faster and more durable. He could even channel that energy, creating ammunition for his weapons and healing his body. The more brutal the kill, the more he received. It was a simple system, one he never expected to call in to question.
But laying sight on the humans of this world, the ones Salem had sworn her crusade against, he found himself barely able to restrain himself from ripping them apart with his own bare hands.
He could see the overflowing light of their souls spilling out of their bodies, wrapping around them like a defensive cocoon. The power and healing he had got from tearing the useless grunts apart had been worth what he would gain from a hundred imps.
And they were just cannon fodder, weak and useless. The amount of strength he would gain from killing one of the stronger ones, like those Salem used as subordinates, would be beyond his wildest expectations.
It would still be significantly less than the amount he had received from the most powerful demons, and far less than what he had gained when he slew the Titan, Hell's Greatest Champion, but the sheer number of them made it more than worth the investment.
More power meant that he could kill more demons. If that meant that humans had to die, so be it.
He had enjoyed a cordial conversation, or as close as he could get to it (he had always been a creature of few words) with Salem, regaling her with tales of his battles in Hell and elsewhere. He told her of the various demonic types, everything from the lowliest possessed to the Barons of Hell, along with the best ways to eliminate them.
She had responded in kind telling him her own tales of masterful strategy and ruthless deceit. He heard how she had crushed empires underfoot with little more than a well placed whisper in the ear of a lord.
But most interestingly, she told him of the one she had called the Traitor, and how he fought desperately on the side of humanity, against. When their cities fell and she razed them to the ground, it was he who allowed some to escape, living to restart the human race despite her best efforts.
The mere thought of it was infuriating. He could only imagine how furious he would be if there was a demon that refused to die, and that opposed him at every turn, stealing his rightful kills out from under his nose.
They did not discuss the circumstances that had lead them to descend into the depravity they now called an existence. The mental torment required to drive a human being to that level of beasthood was almost unimaginable, and even they still bore the scars of that event.
So they conversed, Salem with long, flowingly elegant sentences, and him in short, brusque tones that expressed only what was necessary to continue.
There were 'Grimm', Salem's creatures of darkness, everywhere, yet he did not engage in any sort of violence with them. It was pointless, after all. They were just as soulless as their creator, he would gain nothing from killing them, so he did not.
He stood alone, Salem having left to hear reports from her underlings, looking out over the barren wasteland of his host's domain.
Even now, so far isolated from anything remotely demonic, he could still hear the voice of the Seraphim in the back of his head, urging to him to give into his wrath and slaughter everything in sight.
But rather than the deafening war cry it usually was, it was quiet, as if the Seraphim was subdued, or at the very least distracted. The once deafening chant of 'RIP AND TEAR' was now more a subtle suggestion; one that his iron will was more than capable of suppressing.
So he retained control of himself, for now. The Seraphim could return it's focus to him at any moment, driving him mad with the bloodlust that transformed him and sending him forth to resume his rampage.
"Disgusting, isn't it", spoke the smooth voice of the Grimm Queen behind him, neatly stepping up to survey her lands beside him, "It is barren and dead, this land I rule over. Little more than a wasteland".
He nodded slowly, his opinion made clear.
"Perhaps once all this is over, once my crusade is finally done, and their blight is finally gone from this world, I can finally leave this place behind", her face curled up ever so slightly into an expression of wry amusement, "I do believe that having my base of operations in a field of flowers would give what is decidedly the wrong impression".
He snorted in amusement, the image bringing what could be called the faintest hint of a smile to his hidden face.
Her expression became almost wistful, "I once loved forests. Perhaps I shall live there? Yes, with no humans there the animals will be free to live out their lives, and I can craft myself a humble abode and simply observe them in peace".
It was a lovely image. He imagined himself, free from the Seraphim's control, stood in a great forest that stretched for miles in every direction. The loudest sounds were the soft chirping of the birds, and he was free to roam wherever he wished, without seeking combat or exhilaration.
Perhaps when he grew tired of his wanderings, he would visit Salem in her small home in between the trees, and she would greet him as happily as things as broken as them could manage, and they would converse, just as they were now. Yet instead of telling stories of blood, hatred and slaughter, they would talk about the world, what he had seen and experienced on his travels, and what she had observed from her stationary dwelling. It would be mundane, boring even, but that was exactly why it was so wonderful.
It was a futile dream, forged from nothing by two heartless monsters mired so deep in the corpses of their victims that they could never emerge, soaked in far too much blood to ever hope for such a peaceful outcome.
Neither one of them had experienced the feeling of companionship, for creatures as wretched as them were few and far between. The feeling of understanding another's plight was wholly alien to the Doom Slayer, but it was an enjoyable one nevertheless.
"That would be nice", he sighed, something like sadness creeping into his voice as he hung his head.
The impossible utopia they had created would remain just that, ever out of their reach. The humans would continue to evade Salem, and the Demons would continue to fall before him, as both had for many millennia before. Nothing would change, and their crusades would never end.
It was nice to dream, though.
Firstly, because I can see the reviews coming a mile away, the Doom Slayer's ability to consume souls and use them to empower himself is in fact canon to Doom 2016 (at least according to the wiki). Those souls being the reason that enemies drop health packs and ammo is not canon, however, nor is the brutality of the kill influencing how many he receives, but they line up rather nicely with the game mechanics, while still giving a somewhat more believable explanation for why Chainsawed enemies spray ammo everywhere like piñatas.
The Doom Slayer and Salem have, or are at least starting to develop the strange relationship that will define this fic, and most of their conversations to follow. They are two utterly shattered beings, monsters of the highest order with little to no regard for anything other than their goals.
To find someone else, just like you, is an enlightening and frankly heartwarming experience even in real life, and who knows? Perhaps somewhere in their cold, blackened hearts, they feel it too.
The Dream came spontaneously, but remains, in my humble opinion, particularly powerful. It shows that no matter how far people cast themselves off into the abyss, they will always retain a semblance (no pun intended) of their humanity. And what more base human concepts are there than companionship and dreams? We've probably been doing both those things since we were little more than monkeys cracking rocks together.
So yeah, there we go. Thoughts and opinions. Like it? Don't like it? Disgusted that the character you thought was a hero is content to stand and talk with an almost universally despised villain? (alas, poor Pyrrha).
Also the weird mental image of the Doom Slayer and Tyrian bonding over particularly violent ways to kill people is equal parts hilarious and also, scarily, not unrealistic for the scope of this fic.
That'll be all for today. I'll see you guys next chapter.