CHAPTER VII
SEASONS IN THE ABYSS
Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
-Mathew 7:15
Tears are the silent language of grief.
-Voltaire
There's nothing special about being born. Not a thing. Most of the universe is just death, nothing more. In this universe of ours, the birth of a new life on some corner of our planet is nothing but a tiny, insignificant flash. Death is a normal thing. So why live?
-Johan Liebert, "Monster"
The Monster sat on a rigid steel chair, holding open a paperback copy of American Psycho he secretly stashed within his mattress, chuckling ever so slightly now and then as he skimmed through some of the more comedic moments of the novel while he decided what to do with Light Yagami.
The subtle uncomfortable feeling of the chair did not attract his attention. He had known better pain before, had known pain he gladly suffered with the knowledge that it would make him stronger. It had happened before, and it would surely happen again. Over two decades worth of experience and the undeniable transformation of a small book-worm boy to a seasoned serial killer was all the confidence he needed to continue in his hunting. The Monster grinned in satisfaction the way a wolf would at inattentive, blind sheep as it plotted from the seclusion of nearby bushes, snout dripping with ravenous hunger as he plotted which meal to feast on first. Personally, he always favored the philosophy of the bigger the sheep, the greater the meal. This even included those sheep who fancied themselves wolves before the cleaver came down upon them. He had, after all, not beat that one pimp to death with a lead pipe because he had seen the pimp backhand his prostitute beforehand: he had only done it to help set the record straight, to help bring clarity to this world of delusions and illusions, of pacifist Gods and placid banality being mistaken for greatness. Even those who had acted with violence before, even the Moses' and the Krishnas' and the Bodhidharmas', even they had failed to bring the truth to their people, the simple and undeniable truth that Earth was not a world of Gods versus Monsters, that Gods were Monsters, that Monsters were Gods, that he and his kind would, soon enough, inherit the Earth.
The superficially minded pimp had mistaken himself for a Wolf, and for that he beat his sheep "employee". What other alternative was left for the Wolf but to bring the sock down on the pimp so quickly and efficiently that the entree didn't even have a chance to beg him to spare his life? (If The Monster were capable of such petty emotions, he would have felt compassion for the prostitute who began to vehemently thank him before he brought the pipe upon her. Not a very satisfying meal, but to leave her alive would be to unfairly deceive her as to her true role in life.) Ah, but then there were those wonderful moments for gourmet meals, for the chance for the Wolf to devour other Wolves, like the time the Monster had choked a rude bouncer to death in the closet of a Texas bar. Gratitude was the key to surviving the ebb and flow, the jetsam and flotsam of daily life, after all.
But the Monster digressed. Light Yagami was Kira, of this he was certain. He didn't need to deduce or infer any nuance or detail to know this fact (although he could have if he had chosen to). Knowing that gratitude was key to living a significant, meaningful life, The Monster had yet another reason in a rather long list as to why he start each day with a smile on his face, a song in his heart*, and a spring in his step: The Devil's return to his Kingdom of Hell. The truth of the matter was clear and unavoidable: the Monster had spent enough time amongst the Flames to know a Demon when he saw it, to recognize and to sense and to even taste the blood shed by this Abomination. Yagami reeked of murder, reeked of blood stains, gunpowder, and gasoline. Anyone who knew the world, who really understood things, who knew life for its cruelty and its violence and its utter indifference for those it harmed and who loved life all the more for that, for someone with that kind of exalted perspicacity the truth behind who Light Yagami really was was as clear as day.
Mikami too was one of those who lived in the Flames, but even if the Monster didn't know what he did or observed about the raven haired lunatic, that the hulking zealot insisted to the doctors to the point of blind fury that Yagami was God, the Monster would still have detected subtle signs of servitude in Mikami's demeanor when near Yagami. This was a case of a Demon Knight in the stead of the Devil then.
Or, better yet, the Devil controlling The Angel of Death The Monster thought with a widening grin.
The rest of the intel was as fortunate. The files and documents stated that Yagami was only beginning to accept Kapoor's mistaken notion that he wasn't Kira while the doctors were unable to even make Mikami question that Kira was Yagami in the slightest. But everyone else aside from the asylum personnel? Not a word about who Yagami really was, from what the Monster could observe (and years of successful hunting had taught the Monster to observe much), which meant that Yagami and Mikami were telling the Arkham staff one thing while telling the inmates another. The Monster didn't know what the latter was (yet) but knew that if either one of them told the inmates that Kira was Yagami and that Yagami was Kira, then the entire place would erupt (well, more so than usual). Which meant that they were both up to something. Something that the Monster knew that he wanted to be a part of badly, oh so very badly.
The Bat himself had put Yagami into Hell on Earth, and Yagami had still not accepted defeat, more evidence that the Devil had more than one pan on the grill. Oh, it didn't matter how blank a face he kept while he sat next to the likes of Jane Doe or Quinn or Professor Pig or any of the other maniacs during meal times, the Monster could tell that Yagami was like him, a plotter, a schemer, a strategist. Yagami and The Monster didn't just think: they calculated.
All the more excellent then that Yagami wanted the Monster's aid.
Oh, Kira, Kira, Kira, how the Monster loved his work. For years now the Monster had gone about his day, chopping and slashing and crushing and bashing away, confident that he would come home later that night to hear on the TV the number of people that Kira had executed that day. It was a nice, pleasant feeling, nothing competitive or phony about it at all, simply one artist admiring the superlative work of another artist, Da Vinci admiring the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo admiring the Mona Lisa. Of course, The Monster had no misconceptions about Kira being "God": he wasn't. For what was God amidst these times of caped men and caped women fighting out their fantasy and science fiction operas above while the sheep cringed and winced and wrung their hands below? In such a world, God clearly wasn't some omnipotent old bearded man but an abstract concept, an idea of eternity that transcended all logic, thought, and language and thus helped elevate the spirit of all who contemplated it. Something akin to the Monster relaxing with a nice glass of chardonnay while listening to Philip Glass' Glassworks after an hour or so of burying the bodies.
The fact that the Monster was still alive proved that Yagami was testing him, checking to see if he was only hype or actually the real deal. If Yagami had really wanted the Monster dead, he would have sent in a meta-human like Clayface or Croc to do the job, and Yagami and Mikami were both too intelligent to try to snuff him without doing their homework on him. The inmate assault proved that they wanted his attention, which meant that they researched him beforehand, which meant that they knew his past, which ultimately meant that they knew that not only was he born into the next stage of human evolution, but that he had earned that honor, earned it through years of blades and shovels and graveyard soil, earned the power he acquired as he watched the light fade from the sheeps' eyes.
Yes, Yagami was most likely the one who engineered the attack, as he was clearly the one pulling a vast majority of the strings. And the sheep that he had sent into the lion's den? They were no different from the homeless who screamed at invisible demons or who pushed shopping carts while mumbling to themselves. In any other city, being sent to even the most dilapidated sanitarium was considerably better than being sent to prison, but Gotham and Arkham were two of two of the few places where people were safer in a pen than in an asylum. Flavorless food, freezing temperatures, and armies of rats crawling about every single day of the year were one thing: hearing the Joker laugh and laugh and laugh endlessly no matter how much he was drugged or how many times he was tazed, that devastating mocking of human arrogance, the universe laughing at the utterly futile behavior of man, that gleeful delight in the assurance of life's utter insignificance and it's inevitable destruction twisting and turning down the asylum corridors like the bloody tendrils of an all-consuming contagion...
Well, that was another thing. Thankfully, the Monster, never able to laugh at much else other than snakes eating mice, was able to share a more or less similar sense of humor with Joker, one of the better comedians he had come across in his time. That was the great thing about Arkham and its Crown Prince of Madness inmate: never a lack of comedy.
Its been far too long since he escaped The Monster mused. Oh, I suppose it won't be much longer now until he returns, but this place has been so dead without him. Scarecrow has been subdued by depression, Two Face is being unusually quiet for who knows what reason, and Mikami can't be expected to be the only source of entertainment around here. Really, how often can I be expected to YouTube BBC documentaries before I-
The Monster's stomach grumbled, and he glanced at his watch, one of the few items the asylum staff allowed him to keep. It was nearing six o clock: dinner would be served soon. What was the entree tonight? Sloppy Joe sandwiches? Something like that, though it hardly mattered: the food was sure to be bland no matter how much salt they dumped on it. (And if the Monster hadn't been expecting it, he would have been quite chagrined to learn that the Arkham staff didn't pay his request for vegetarian food much mind: Was it so much to ask that he try to keep his heart healthy?) Still, the Monster could eat virtually whatever slop they set before him: indeed, it was his pride that he had trained himself to survive off of what most people would retch at, even those who thought ramen topped with hot dogs to be a perfectly reasonable means of sustenance. For those weak, simple-minded sheep ate their ramen and their hot dogs and their hamburger stand fast food, often on the go, without barely tasting the food itself as they complied once again with the endless hustle and bustle of their pathetic lives, never stopping in the midst of their interminable driving and working and credit card spending to wonder what it was all for, too cowardly to realize that it was all for naught. The Monster was far different though, and that was what gave him the right to act as he acted. For the Monster had a goal, and until he could achieve that goal, until he could see the light die in the eyes of his older sister, he would not rest. Until then, he would eat whatever garbage the keepers of this madhouse set before him, no matter how nauseating. In time, he would receive the sustenance that he truly craved, that truly gave him the power to stand and walk tall amongst the skeletons in this endless expanse of graveyards and coffins. Soon enough, with the aid of Kira, The Monster would be able to feast upon the sheep once more.
After all, if you think about it, Yagami wasn't trying to use those inmates to kill me The Monster thought with a small, satisfied smile as he began to wipe his glasses clean using his shirt. He was just trying to feed me.
Yagami clearly didn't want The Monster dead. Again, If he had, he would have hired someone like Croc or Clayface or any other meta-human inmate to do the job. And if Yagami and Mikami were anywhere as brilliant as the files the Monster read when he sneaked out of his cell and broke into the doctors' offices indicated, there was no way either one would have sent a mentally ill human to snuff him out. But the Monster didn't even need to research Yagami to know that he had more than one knife hidden up his sleeve: observation had taught the Monster much about the hunt, and it was clear if you actually looked hard enough that Yagami had yet to throw in the towel. It was the way he would seemingly glance at someone with a casual air: look beyond that superficial layer, and it was plainly evident that Yagami was studying them, combing over their every strength and every weakness. That kind of attention didn't come without a goal. And as those with goals were almost always the ones to not just survive but to thrive in Arkham, if the likes of Two Face were to thrive in Arkham because of his choking hatred for the World, and if the likes of Joker were to thrive in Arkham because of his joy in acting as the Nightmare of the Universe, the odds were good that Yagami would not only survive but thrive in Hell on Earth.
Like Yagami, the Monster had undergone the "New Fish" phase of Arkham's barbaric rites and rituals. Usually, those with completely debilitating illnesses would fall apart during that phase of insults, jeers, and threats. The Monster had proven himself not to be one of these cases after he tossed an extension cord noose over a rude guard and then threw him over a second story catwalk for all cafeteria diners to witness, a choking, wheezing, and vein throbbing pinata spinning about, appearance giving way to function as a mob of inmates began to stab the gasping pinata with plastic knives and sporks. Thankfully, the beating that the Monster received from the other guards in retribution and the two weeks spent in solitary proved to be utterly worth it. (The Monster could now read and study in peace without the likes of White Shark screaming that he was going to use his tear his teeth out with a ball cutter.)
Yagami had handled his new fish phase quite differently, but no less entertainingly. In a vast majority of the time The Monster had spent studying Yagami, the new fish ignored whatever insults were thrown his way with a rather bored look on his face, as if he rather all expected this childish prattling but had at least enough confidence that his copy of the "Hagakure" would help him endure the tedium for the time being. True, Mikami was always by Yagami's side, and from afar, seemed to growl like a junkyard dog who could be controlled by no one by his Master.
Indeed, thus far the Monster had only witnessed one incident of violence with Yagami in it, impressive as it was. Yagami and Mikami had been walking down the corridors surrounded by a number of guards when "Chainsaw" Charlie Dawkins, for whatever reason (or lack thereof: Chainsaw wasn't the most stable individual), attempted to shank Yagami with what later turned out to be a sharpened ruler. With all the nonchalant grace of a trained boxer, Yagami seamlessly blocked the attack and then subdued Chainsaw with a swift punch to the throat. Yagami had then calmly walked away from the scene, snapped his fingers, and turned a corner just Mikami gored through the guards, grasped a wheezing Chainsaw by his waist, and then German Suplexed him through the guard room's glass window barrier. It was clear from studying this that Yagami had controlled the whole thing, knowing exactly when to strike and when to let Mikami strike for him. If the Monster's hunch was right (and it usually was, especially after years of experience learning to decide what prey was best worth his efforts), then Mikami was the greater fighter, but Yagami was clearly the brain behind the operations as well as a brain with some pretty slick moves (Clearly not in the league of the Bat, but for a rare few, who was?). Intriguingly, Yagami hadn't bragged about the incident afterwards, viewed by plenty of inmates in the same hall, and its message was clear enough: irritating me isn't worth the snapped vertebrae. Due to the spectacle, that message was sure to spread quickly. And if Yagami, whom the profile labeled as a talkative egomaniac, was being quiet about all this, then it indicated that he was waiting to reveal something big. Hopefully soon, anyway...
The combat skills and intellect were what Yagami brought with him. But to stay alive inside confinement, you needed not just what you brought with you, but what your prison provided you. It was like Freeman had stated in The Shawshank Redemption: an inmate either got busy dying or he got busy living. The same prison logic applied to sanitariums, especially Arkham. Well, judging by all the books that Yagami spent a great deal of his time with, it was evident that the old boy had no intentions of throwing in the towel anytime soon. It seemed like just about every moment of every day, Yagami had a book by his side, if not his nose deep in it. Nor did Yagami spend any time with books that struck the Monster as having any connection to any form of self-destruction or imminent suicide. Indeed, what soon-to-be stiff spent most of his time in the library, as the Monster had secretly observed of Yagami? What sort of inevitable nervous breakdown would study a biography of Geronimo one hour while taking notes on Clausewitz's "On War" the next? Musashi, Spartacus, Zulu, Hannibal... these strategists, tacticians, and warriors were the subjects that Yagami patiently and quietly read, that is, Books of War. Yagami's goal, that which allowed him to endure Arkham and become even stronger because of his new home, wasn't likely to be those War Books themselves: if he wanted something comforting to read, as so many of the sheep did, he would have done far better to consult some petty new-age glib that clutched at whatever straws it could in order to convince its readers that the universe was not a chaotic and malevolent place, that it was created by a loving deity and that life was His kind and benevolent gift, sentiments so utterly absurd that the Monster began to chuckle as he recalled them. The Monster knew the real score: the Universe was Hell, and only Demons could master it.
But it was especially the fact that Yagami seemed to read Nietzsche the most that particularly caught the Monster's attention. Ah, Nietzsche, arguably one of the greatest minds to have ever lived, a philosopher strong and brave enough to laugh at and tear apart all the pathetic delusions that the sheep used as crutches, used in order to deny the cruel truths of human existence. Indeed, Nietzsche, along with the likes of Steinbeck, Dostoevsky, and Twain were among those who had inspired the Monster to rip off the wool off the face of the sheep (although it was the Monster who deserved credit for the ingenuity of choking the sheep with said wool). The Monster could only hope that Yagami was intelligent enough to gratefully appreciate Nietzsche's oeuvre but also to disagree with him cordially, not a shallow groupie who willingly misinterpreted that revolutionary genius. True, the records indicated that Yagami was brilliant, but the Monster had been disappointed by those whom he thought he might perhaps share a bond with, only to find out that said individuals were educated yet not intelligent.
Case in point, Nathan Freudenthal Leopold, Jr and Richard Albert Loeb, better known as "Leopold and Loeb", two wealthy University of Chicago students who had committed murder in 1924 based on their interpretation of Nietzsche. So disappointing, those boys. When the Monster had first heard of them, he had quickly gone to buy a book on them, only to end up gingerly thumbing through the last pages, disappointed that he had not found fellow soul mates but spoiled children merely playing at being Titans. Had they simply disagreed with Nietzsche, the Monster might have respected them except that they had not parted ways from Nietzsche's philosophy, they had used their sordid misinterpretation of Nietzsche to excuse actions of murdering a child, such easy prey, so unsatisfying to true Wolves, such a paltry meal for such a ravenous appetite.
The Ubermensch being permitted to commit crimes because of his superiority? Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb demonstrating their Will To Power by murdering Loeb's adolescent cousin? Preposterous! If those two fatuous imbeciles weren't so blinded by their own hubris, they would have realized that Nietzsche taught that the Ubermensch's power was creative, not destructive, that physical violence was a poor, ineffective example of the Will To Power, that the Superman was meant not to rule people but to lead them to a new state of society in which there would be no weaklings and slaves. The Monster could only hope that Yagami was not intending to use a gross misinterpretation in order to justify his actions; it would be far more preferable if the man were to merely toss aside what he deemed to be Nietzsche's errors and keep what he believed to be his indisputable gems. For Yagami to stop short of surpassing his Master, after all, was an affront to the Legend of Philosophy: "One repays a teacher badly if one always remains nothing but a pupil" as Friedrich himself had put it. And for Yagami to possibly attempt to surpass his old mentor? The very thought made the Monster grin as the rare chills, the chills he relished so and savored every moment he could, crawled up and down his spine.
Still, the irony regarding Nietzsche and violence was tangible. Nietzsche's genius dictum that that which was easier (say, some Johnny-Come-Lately writing a novel that only pretended to know what vampires really were) were generally inferior to that which was difficult and rare was in and of itself an admission that violence, executed properly, could be a valid example of the Will To Power. What of the use of violence not to exalt one's own self, but to submit an undeniable message to the masses, desperate though they be to not accept it, fingers in their ears, eyes shut tight, mouths mewling a pitiful cacophony of platitudes of Light and Love and the the Heavens above? And what of violence and death and murder utilized to create glorious artifacts of art? Where, indeed, would humanity be without the fleshly abominations of a Francis Bacon, the starkly etched monstrosities of a Junji Ito, the deliberately erotic and primal genius of a HR Giger? It was fair to say that the World would be a far poorer place without such so-called "low-brow" or "garish" pieces of dark brilliance. And in terms of more contemporaneous happenings, madness and hatred and not just violence but glorious ultraviolence of and against the soul were the prime ingredients of that graphic novel and anime that Monster had loved so much, the one named after what he was, "Monster". What other manga or animated program contained the superlative quality and ground-breaking style of an Alfred Hitchcock classic? What other series could have so dramatically and entertainingly submitted the correct interpretation of life, that Life was so utterly insignificant compared to Death, oh sweet Death, which ran Supreme? True, that was only the viewpoint of the story's villain, Johan Leibert, and it ran antithetical to the thoroughly spurious philosophy of the "hero", Doctor Kenzo Tenma. Oh, poor, poor Tenma, and poor, poor everyone like him (especially the Monster's father): statements that all life is sacred, that all lives are equal, that everyone deserves to be saved were decidedly impressive from those who actually believed in them without exception, but the Monster could respect someone even while knowing just how dead wrong they truly were, at least enough to make their razor blade across the throat nice and quick.
Johan and Yagami, my brothers from another mother The Monster thought, his grin widening.
But, again, it was Nietzsche's very own outstanding logic that proved him wrong about the ineffectiveness of physical violence. Surely, Nietzsche wouldn't deny how common it was for the pseudo wolves to hunt those weaker than them, yes? The same way how the inferior artist created art that was quick and easy as compared to the superior artist who put out works of rare and difficult works of majesty, yes? By that same token, did not Nietzsche himself have to admit that the Monster was greater than the average wolf due to his hunting prey sometimes equal but usually greater than himself? So many would-be wolves, so many Ted Bundy's and so many John Wayne Gacy's and so many Jeffery Dahmer's who went after the meek and the mild, and so many sheep, too hopelessly ignorant to ever be able to distinguish a Rembrandt from a deodorant commercial, oohing and awwing at whatever bloody yet undeniably gauche crime distracted them from the tedium of their gray and mediocre and pointless lives. But then, the superlative products of one's own exemplary labor was always one's own true reward, and a true artist always cared more about his art than about what any of the plebians had to say about it. To stomp a woman or to choke a child to death was so easy, so common, so mundane. But to be insulted by some drunk jock at a college party, to observe him as he stumbled to his car, to quietly subdue him with a rag of chloroform, to drive his unconscious body to the abandoned factory chosen ahead of time, to strap him down to a table and then use jaws of life to pry his chest cavity open and then time how long he could keep him alive while torturing him with garden and hardware tools until he eventually died from the agony? No, now that was difficult, now that was rare, now that was superior! To say that the Monster's hunts were equal to that of some illiterate vulgarian was to equate Milton with Stephenie Meyer, Bach with Phil Collins, Chan with Seagal.
Not that Yagami was likely to see things the Monster's way. Great minds did not think alike: Sartre didn't think like Aslan, Buckley didn't think like Goldman, and Nietzsche most certainly didn't think like Socrates. The Monster was well aware that that Death was but a means to Yagami's end, and if Yagami was worth his salt then he must have known that Death was the Monster's one and only end. But really what did their minor, negligible differences amount to when Death, oh so Magnificent Death, united them so? What did it matter that Death was a means to Yagami's ends, a grisly method meant to bring about a new, glorious Kingdom for a new, glorious eon? What did it matter that Death was what made the Monster stronger, what made his blood flow and what made his heart pump and what colored his perspicacity so vividly that he could scarcely express his gratitude in being born in a world of torture and murder and hatred that made all of Hell possible?
The Devil had returned to Hell. The Devil was coming for the Monster. And soon enough, with the Devil's aid, The Monster would finally be able to come for the first one to truly see him for what he was.
I'm coming for you, Barbara The Monster thought.
"Well, this ought to be interesting", said James Gordon Junior.
ELSEWHERE IN THE ASYLUM
Teru sat in his chair that was bolted to the floor, fastened into his straight jacket, as had become his norm. A small television and DVD player on a cart had been placed in the center of his cell, situated only a few inches from him, playing a film. Ryuk sat on a nearby cot, munching on apples he had nabbed from the cafeteria. For most of the film, the two had watched quietly, Teru usually so, Ryuk unusually so. When it came to movies that Teru wanted to see, Ryuk would usually yell "Boring!" or yell advice at the on-screen characters until he eventually found something more entertaining for him to do, like running up to the doctors' doors and knocking on them knowing full well that he couldn't be seen or leaving flaming bags of dog excrement in front of those same doors. This rare time, however, Ryuk seemed just as entranced as Teru was in the film, and spoke only a few times. Thankfully, this time the statements and questions Ryuk uttered were both valid and pertinent. Had Ryuk voiced his usual intimations that Teru's movies sucked and that he should start watching more comedies with that Billy Madison guy, approaching personnel would have witnessed Teru rocking violently at his chair while apparently screaming death threats at nothing in particular.
"So what's this one called again?" Ryuk asked as some humans brutalized some other humans in some kind of rural village for God knows what reason.
"'Idi i smotri'", Teru said. "By Elem Klimov. In this country, it's called 'Come and See'".
"I gotta tell you, this one seems pretty sick", Ryuk commented. "I mean, that other one, that Salo, yeah? That was kind of funny, you know?"
"I know you found it hysterical", Teru stated, no longer fazed by Ryuk's appallingly profane sense of humor.
"Yeah, but see, that one had poo and pee," Ryuk continued. "This one though... this one's just brutal. All this death and agony and hatred... its just not all that funny. It's just kinda... sad. Know what I mean?"
"I do", Teru replied.
"So then... why?" Ryuk said.
"Why what?" Teru asked.
"Why all... this?" Ryuk said, gesticulating towards the on-screen Nazis tormenting the on-screen Belorusians and Belorusian Jews.
"Because the Nazi's hated Jews", Teru answered.
A beat passed.
"But why?" Ryuk asked.
"Because they told themselves Jews were trying to conquer the world", Teru said.
"Oh," Ryuk said.
Another beat.
"Were they?" Ryuk asked.
"No," Teru said. "Jews have never tried to take over the world, nor has any other race of people. Such an idea is absurd. Conquerors and their soldiers are tied together by ideology, not race."
"So then... what's the deal with all this here?" Ryuk asked.
"When you convince yourself of something," Teru said, "something that your very identity depends upon, you will be willing to comit the most horrific actions conceivable in order to retain that belief."
Ryuk thought for several moments, staring at the screen.
"Red pill versus blue pill?" the Reaper asked.
Teru turned an askew glance towards Ryuk, somewhat impressed in spite of himself.
"You could say that," Teru said. Confusion began to cloud Teru's face after he spoke that sentence. "Wait, aren't you immortal? Don't you remember any of this happening?"
"Eh, I kind of recall some of the boys talking about this one," Ryuk said. "But I stopped paying attention after the first big one, you know? It was just starting to get old after a while. One country wants something, people start killing each other and yadda yadda yadda."
Ryuk continued to watch. Eventually (and, according to Teru, inevitably), he spoke again:
"Man, I'll never be able to figure out you humans," the Reaper said. "It's like… you all act like you're so different from one another because of how you look or where you're from or what you believe. Every time I've ever looked down on Earth, your kind is always throwing down, and for the stupidest reasons. Hasn't anyone ever told you humans that things would be so much better for your species if you, like, all worked together and put aside your differences and loved each other or whatever?"
"Some have," Teru replied. "Unfortunately, those sagacious saints tend to be murdered by those who can't accept such self-evident truths."
Teru turned another quietly impressed gaze towards Ryuk. "Although I must say I'm quite impressed than an illiterate neanderthal like yourself is able to espouse the wisdom of the ages."
"Thanks. I'm impressed that a lunatic like you has gone twelve days now without a violent incident", Ryuk said.
"Nine days", Teru corrected him. "They're letting me watch this one because the doctors hope that this tragedy might help me regain my empathy and compassion."
"Does it?" Ryuk asked.
"No," Teru said. "I never lost them to begin with."
"Oh", the Shinigami said.
There was a few more moments of quiet as Teru and Ryuk continued to watch the film. The Nazis began to herd the Jews into an empty barn.
"I never enjoyed it, you know", Teru said.
"Eh?" Ryuk replied.
"All this", Teru said. "The first born of Egypt. The destruction of Sennacherib. The seventy thousand I destroyed in Jerusalem when David was King. My role in and after the French Revolution under Robespierre. My experiments in Auschwitz. The people I kidnapped and tortured in Argentina. I never once enjoyed it, but thousands of years ago, I thought I had it all figured out. I thought I had learned why God created me, why he gave me my Gift and My Curse."
The Jews were forced into the barn. The building was locked, the Nazis prepared their Molotov cocktails and their grenades.
"But like the Fool I am, I turned out to be so wrong about what God wants", Teru continued. "About what God has planned. If I had found out earlier, perhaps I could have led Humanity to Paradise earlier. Perhaps Vanessa would not have been taken from me. Or perhaps I would have finally been allowed to die once and for all."
The weapons were thrown through the barred windows of the barn.
Ryuk paused, then decided it would be best not to pursue Teru's particular recollection of past events. As entertaining as Teru's outbursts could be, even the Shinigami had a limit to how much lunacy he could tolerate without fearing for his own sanity.
"… well, then, I guess it's a good thing Kira's around, yeah?" Ryuk said, hoping that Teru wouldn't start screaming about the perverse generation of the worshipers of Moloch. "I mean, with Light taking control and all, now all this evil stuff is gonna stop or at least not happen as often."
The barn began to burn.
"Kira shall stop Evil forever", Teru said. "All is proceeding as His Holiness has devised. The Dark Knight and His Dark Kingdom shall soon fall to the True King. The Queens and Kings of Metropolis, Themyscaria, Star City and all the rest shall soon bow down and toss their Crowns at my Lord's Feet. Leviathan shall sleep once more. Alpha and Omega shall reunite. Order shall return to the Cosmos. Evil shall be the last enemy and it shall be the last death."
The human beings trapped inside the blazing barn screamed in agony as they burned to death.
A single, solitary tear ran down Teru's blank face.
"Even if I have to burn this whole World down", said the Angel of Death.
NOTE: Sorry for the long wait, everyone! I've just been crazy busy with a new job and a new home! Incidentally, in the "Madhouse" chapter , Doc Kapoor states that it would be "weird" if a Speilrein situation occurred between her and Doc Rivera (Carl Jung allegedly had an affair with his patient, Sabina Speilrein during the time he went from being Sigmund Freud's friend/surrogate son to ex-BFF. Do yourself a favor and read/watch A Dangerous Method). Myself being a proud ally of the LGBT crowd (I could spend hours listening to George Takei read the back of a shampoo bottle), I know that such a situation wouldn't be "weird" but rather "complicated", and also that such an affair between Kapoor and Natalie Portman (actress who played Speilrein) wouldn't be weird but rather... well, you get the point. Will change wording soon. Also, in the "Shout at the Devil" chapter, Light refers to Thomas Jefferson's famous line that "All men are created equal" as nonsense, but not in a racial sense. What Light is saying is that not all people are equal in talent which is a Nietzsche idea. That is, a mediocre piano player clearly isn't the equal of Chopin. If anything, racism is yet another reason in a long stream of them as to why Light looks down upon all of humanity. Light, deviating from Nietsche, believes in tyranny but retains Nietzsche's antipathy towards democracy, which Jefferson kind of sort of believed in (Except just not, you know, for the slaves. In his defense, Jefferson was human, and humans tend to be mixed bags. ["Look, Thomas, a red ball! Isn't it delightful? Why don't you go play with that while we alien overseers discuss the wretched and abominable fate of your species? You have fun now!"]) Some of the other chapters are nearly finished and will be uploaded soon as well as a separate fanfic I've been working on on the side. Thank you for all your support!