Uh... hi? So... this is not Owl. This is Cat. Owl's submitting thing is stuffed, so I'm being a nice friend and putting this chapter up for her. Because I'm amazing.

Chapter 36: The Descent into Hell is Easy

He could almost see her; her silhouette against the darkness. The darkness that had hidden her from him for so long. He could see the glint of her hair, of her shoulders, the tips of her ears. Struggling against the otherworldly force holding him away, he reached out—stretched as far as he could. Pain burned his arm, attacked his spine. Made him want to give up. It's only pain, he said. How long have you lived with it? He kept reaching. His body became rigid. Come on, he demanded of himself. Reach her!

His fingertips were a foot away from her. She was so close. He could remember her now—her name. Who she was to him. Her eyes. Her hair. "COME ON!" he screamed out into the darkness as he desperately groped at the open air, trying to reach her . . . but he couldn't. The darkness settled, and she was gone.

He couldn't reach her.

They hated him. Despised him. He expected no less from them. "Look at him," they'd whisper as he went past. "Filthy Daemon."

That was what they had started calling him. Out of envy. Out of hate. Out of pride. He, the boy that had started lower than the average beggar, had the nerve to charge so much for his services.

"Filthy Daemon," they'd say, "Kills people for money, for people that don't have money . . ."

They all knew better, of course, than to complain, but they did it anyway. Because that's just what they were: fools. They knew—all of them knew—and yet they still complained. Still badmouthed him. Still hated him. Most of them, of course, even knew what he was like outside the Complex. Outside the Empire. They had heard rumours, of course. Some newer, and some from very long ago.

But he didn't hate them. He knew that he should have hated them; he was meant to hate them. But he didn't feel like wasting his ever-disappearing energy on hating them. Different to what most people thought, you can get no power from hate.

"You can't let it rule you, boy!" shouted the man, hands balled into fists. "You can't be that weak!"

"I have every right to be weak!" the other boy shouted back, hair falling over his right eye. He was scowling, but his eye was half-lidded, tired. "You have no idea what I have been through!"

"That doesn't mean you can drag everyone else into it!"

"Why not?" the boy screamed. His eye flew wide as he glared at the man. "Why can't I? My life is ruined—my existence is ruined! Why can't I make them pay? It was them that ruined it!"

"That's not the right thing to do!"

"I don't care!"

For a moment, the man just stared at the boy, mouth open in shock. The boy panted, still glaring at the man. "Why can't I?" he continued, voice low and gravelly. "Why am I not allowed to? They have no idea what they even did!"

"Don't you get it?" the man's voice shook. "The world doesn't revolve around you. You don't get to decide who's at blame. You don't . . . YOU DON'T DECIDE!"

"I DON'T CARE!" the boy screamed back. "YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE AMOUNT OF SHIT THAT I HAVE BEEN THROUGH. YOU DON'T GET TO TELL ME THAT I DON'T GET TO DECIDE, YOU OLD DICKHEAD!"

The man sighed and ran a hand over his face, pulling his features down with his fingertips. He scowled and closed his eyes. His shoulders shook. "You aren't God, you naïve child. Why can't you get that? Even if I was to let you do it—you don't have the strength. You are weak; you are naïve; you are self-centred and stupid. What are you meant to do, even if you get past me and decide to do it? You aren't strong enough, fool."

The boy glared at him. "You underestimate how much time I have on my hands."

Dead bodies lay around him. Blood pooled around his feet. His sword rested on the ground, blood still dripping down the smooth face of the blade. Its edges were withered, as if it was too old to be doing such work.

Fabric rustled as the he stepped forward, the hem of his coat shifting around his walking legs. Black boots hovered on the surface of the pool of blood, remaining afloat, never breaking the surface. Ripples spread from the soles of his feet.

"You'll ne'er . . ." a hoarse and clotted voice croaked. The owner of the voice lay with his head on the side, face and body mangled, covered in blood. "You're too . . . we . . .ak."

The figure looked over, sharp profile a black outline against the bloodred sky. He took a step towards the man and lifted his foot onto his face. He pressed his toes down. The man opened his mouth, as if to scream, but no sound came out other than a gurgling noise. However, his one partly-open eye was wide with pain and horror.

The figure ground his toes into the man's head. Blood pooled around his toes. Squirted from breaking arteries. The man's face twitched until it couldn't anymore. The figure kept his foot there until they were certain that the man was dead. He retracted his foot and then continued walking.

He swung his sword before him a few times, swinging off the blood, before sheathing it at his waist. The blade slid into its scabbard, and whatever emotions it seemed to express died immediately.

The figure shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, seemingly oblivious to the world of death and blood and pain around him. Those who were still alive made no noise; they simply lay in silence, waiting to die.

The Daemon walks a bloody path,

With souls in his pockets and

Lost dreams at his toes,

He will always bring evil wherever he goes.

Under his breath, the boy whistled the chune.

Blood dribbled from the limp boy's lips. Another dead one lay in his arms.

They were always dead in his arms.

Always in his arms. Always in his embrace.

Always bleeding to death.

Always looking at him.

Always dying.

Always dead.

This time, the boy didn't look at him. His eyes were already cut out. "You . . ." his words were ragged. "I blame you for this, kid."

But this time, he didn't cry. No, this time the dark-clad boy remained silent and watched the boy in his arms die. Watched him with no feeling. No feeling at all.

The boy was long dead. He was long cold in his arms; life had long left him.

Some part of the boy let his face remain pale and shocked, eyes wide to saucers as he stared in horror at the body in his arms, without truly feeling anything. And the other part of him, the larger part of him . . .

Was beyond caring.

They took him away. It was a wake-up call for the dark-clad boy. He wasn't strong enough. Law enforcers could still get him. Kids could still root him out. He regarded his captors from the corner of his eye. He knew no one would ever suspect them of being genetically mutated: the way their eyes had become golden for those few minutes; the way their sensory output nerves had evolved in moments. Canine DNA of the highest purity. Concentrated.

He smirked. He would have fallen to no one else. Tory Brennan, the girl's name was. (MWAHAHAHAHA ANYONE HERE READING VIRALS?) It was clear she was the leader of the pack. Red hair and green eyes. She reminded him of someone . . . someone long-forgotten.

He allowed himself to be loaded into the back of the police vehicle. As strong as he was, he was still young. Still naïve. The Nunchines guy had the map, didn't he? He had to get it. He had to get stronger. Get smarter.

The cuffs kept him in line, however. He tugged at them, chafing his wrists, but he was unable to do any damage. He looked at them again from the corner of his eye. I know about you, he told them. I know how your genetics are messed-up.

He watched as all of their eyes went wide simultaneously. His gaze never wavered. It's been a while since I have seen kids with the guts to use it.

As he was loaded into the truck, he realised he had complimented them.

Why would I do that . . . ? he wondered.

Because the girl reminded me of someone.

The Oblivion stretched around him.

So this is how it ends, he thought, as he neither hovered nor existed at all through Oblivion. How much longer would it take for him to never have, nor ever exist?

I end up floating in Oblivion.

The world around him was not black. Nor was it white. Nor was it grey, or any other colour. It was nothing. There was no shade at all. It was like someone had cut the existence of colour and substance out of the world. Which they had, even though there was no 'they'. It just simply never existed here.

Idly, the he remembered his life. All of it. Even the Prologue, as he called it. Three Universes. One of them, his memory was too scrambled to remember much. Nothing except the vague outlines of a face. Of pale hair, like royalty. Of striking eyes.

But of course, those memories never existed. Nor would they ever exist.

Because they were in Oblivion.

He had lived long enough, he supposed. If you could call what he had existed through a 'life', then he had. He had existed through enough time to be considered older than every existence. The number of years had grown more and more, until he had started measuring his life in units, and from then he had started measuring it in Universes.

And still the number had grown.

He found himself not bothering to detest the flood of memories that overcame him as he faded away into Oblivion.

He had tried many times. So many times, to save the people that saved him. The way he travelled was always the same: he would wake up somewhere with no memory, and he would make a name for himself. If he was lucky, someone would take pity on him and help him, and he would end up in an orphanage or something. There was that side effect as well: the extreme pressure of inter-universal travel caused his cellular structure to regress back to a child about twelve years old. Sometimes he liked it. Other times, he hated it.

But that time, that time he had woken up as a boy and found himself in a hospital. As usual, he had no recollection of his life. The nurse came over. Detectives came over. Asked him questions. He didn't remember anything. He could barely talk.

They sent him to an orphanage, then. He spent a few years there, blissfully unaware of his past. He would get older, and someone would adopt him. That time, he was sent around to a foster home.

He stayed with them for a few years. Got older. When he was fifteen in that world, the family died in a freak accident. Everyone except him. Because he couldn't die. Not like that.

That was the moment his memory returned. Most of it. He forced himself back in time. Forced himself to go back.

They kept dying.

He went again. And again. And again.

But he couldn't save them.

No matter whose face he had; no matter how old he was; no matter who they were to him; he never learnt. Every time, they died. And every time, he tried to save them. Every time. He tried so many times, and not once did he succeed. He always found himself holding the gun; always found himself watching as they died, because he couldn't take the pain of failing to save them anymore.

That was when he started meeting Them.

Like him, they were anomalies of the Universe. But they had not come from where he had come from. They were from the Universe, and they would die in the Universe. Like Emma. Like Ben. Like Troy. Like Paris. Like all of them. Like his very first Ma and Pa.

And always, they died as well. They always died. Always in his arms.

But he could never go back and save them. Because they were anomalies. And they always hated him, in the end.

They always blamed him for everything.

Because he was evil.

That was when he realised that he wasn't just an anomaly. The reason they always died was because of him. It was always his fault, be it by his hand or not. It was always because of him that they had died.

He was evil.

But . . . had he always been?

Greta Hayes had been the largest anomaly he had come across. He had been searching that Universe. The discovery of the Universe had been existential. That very Universe that had been locked away; hidden from him.

But he had found it.

Greta's two sisters were not who he was looking for. They weren't strong enough; smart enough.

But Greta Hayes had struck him. Because deep down, he saw himself in her.

She was burdened with the weight of death, and as much as she tried to convince herself that it had no effect on her, it did. It affected her family; it affected her; it affected everyone around her. He could see the writing shadow that spread around the floor, the shadow that no one would dared get too close to. The power of death.

And she was young. She looked barely twelve. Her eyes were hard and old, however, with pale hair like royalty, and startling, analysing eyes.

It's her. It had to be her.

"I pity you." The words had no real effect on him at all. They were just words. Just her simple thoughts.

But that was how he knew. It was not her. The one he was looking for would never say something as petty as that. She would not pity him. Greta Hayes was the wrong one.

He studied her face. It was pale and colourless, eyes shadowed by the hair combed over her eye. Her mouth was pressed into a firm line.

Disappointed, he let his sword fall forward.

Slowly, too slowly, she realised that he had moved, and that the sword was now spearing her midsection. She stared down it in numb horror.

Already, it was killing her. Blood trickled to the ground. But he could tell. He could see the shadows at the back of her irises. The surge of power she had from the Death on him; from the vials of souls in his pockets. Her shadow of death growing bigger from tasting the Death on him.

She grabbed his collar. He hadn't counted on that. "I swear," she growled, "I will find out your secret."

The girl Fractured.

The boy sipped his coffee. Adjusted his glasses. He was waiting for the man to come, so that he could ask him about the map. He had to get a map.

He glanced out the corner of his eye. At a nearby table, a girl sat, looking at the empty coffee cup before her. She had pale blond hair and bright grey eyes, staring down at the empty coffee cup. However. The boy couldn't see very clearly. His eyesight was ruined from the travel over.

But, if he had been able to see as he could in a few millennia's time, he would have noticed that the girl was staring at him from the corner of her eye.

"Who are you, Daemon . . . ?" she whispered.

His teacher was harsh. He expected no less from the infamous C, but it still surprised the boy. He had heard of him since he was a child. He had seen him when his family had died, but he never suspected that he would get to be the student.

"Subject," C said nonchalantly, not even looking at him. "Get better."

That was what he was called: subject. To the Daemon, he had no name, just 'subject'. To the Daemon, he was just a thing. A thing that Nunchines had dumped on him.

"I'm the best in the academy," the boy snapped. "How do I get better if I have no one to base it off?"

The Daemon said nothing. He turned the page of his book.

"How do I get better?" the boy pressed, sweeping sweaty strands of blond hair off his forehead. "TELL ME!"

The Daemon ignored him, yet again.

Clenching his jaw and balling his fists, his anger bloomed into an explosion of rage. However, within that rage, he was still scared of the Daemon. No one had ever seen what he could do and lived afterwards.

Still, the boy stormed forward and yanked the book out of the Daemon's—

The book didn't move, but the dark-clad boy was gone. The boy felt icy breath on the back of his neck. Every hair on his body stood on end, as if he was just run through with pure electricity.

"Are you sure that you want to do that?"

The boy's teeth chattered. He could hear his breathing inside his head, as if it was submerged beneath water. His own breath sounded in his ears. What was he meant to say?!

"No? Good."

The boy felt the Daemon move away; felt him release him from his icy clutches. The book clattered to the ground. The boy stared in horror at it, still on the ground with its pages fanned out beneath the covers.

"Now," said the Daemon, bending over to pick up the book. "Work harder, kid, and maybe you won't have to deal with anything much worse in future."

The boy swallowed and nodded. "But . . ."

The Daemon stared at him. He couldn't tell if it was a glare, because his eyes were so pointedly accusing, but somehow, he didn't feel like it was. "Please, can you call me Jay?"

The Daemon didn't say anything. His eyes remained unnervingly accusing. He returned to his book.

Jay went back to trying harder.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

He had stopped counting, after that. Those were the people that had been close to him. The people that had mattered to him.

The people that had either died in his arms or been killed by him.

When he was younger, they took him to a 'training camp' where he grew up with two other boys. They became his greatest friends. They came from pasts not all that different from his.

And he killed them.

That was what he was meant to do. The training was meant to kill all emotions.

And it worked.

All through his life, he had lived to kill others; to watch others die in his arms. That was all he had come to do. Until he was employed. Then he was meant to destroy planets. Kill innocent people. And he didn't care.

He had been trained not to care.

So that is the life that the Daemon has lived. The boy stared up, into Oblivion, waiting for it to all end. It was meant to all end.

He had tried to kill himself. To destroy himself. For a while, that was the only way he was able to escape the Universes he had travelled to. He had lost count of all he had done, he just knew that he had done it.

And yet he still existed.

Come on, he thought, hurry up and Obliterate me.

But nothing happened. Slowly, he noticed the sheer nothing around him begin to morph.

No, he thought. No!

But too late. He was back. Even Oblivion hadn't taken him. He stared at the Archer sky nonchalantly. Deep down, had he expected anything less?

Even Oblivion has standards, he supposed.

The world around him was dark and dry; the lone fog light on the ship light up the mist they were travelling through, and the most distant of land beyond. Already, they could hear the muffled gunshots from the other side of the water. The world was tinged blue with the pre-morning gloom. The tide lapped at the shore. The boy gripped his rifle slung over his shoulder. How many times had he seen war? How many times had he allowed himself to be killed in war?

And it still made him so afraid. His stomach knotted. Sweat broke out on his palms. He wiped his forehead with a shaking hand. He felt tears sting his eyes, pull at his throat, but he swallowed them away. Can't cry, he thought. Can't let myself cry. He fingered the pendant around his neck: the Christian cross. For a moment, he found his fake faith comforting: maybe he could pretend that he was one of them, that he had something greater than him that he could believe in.

But he knew. He already knew. There was no hope for him.

Seven had never been a good number for him. But he could never remember why. That was until he was part of the training corps. He had a brother that he had been moved in with when he was at the physical age of seven (yes, the Universe liked to play jokes), when his memory was still gone from the Shift.

Back then, his life had seemed so simple. He wished that he could have stayed victim to the Shift forever.

But alas, it was not to be.

The boy in the room regarded him. He regarded the boy. Both of them had dark hair; both with dark, untrusting eyes. But the boy that sat in the dark room looked like he had been through hell, whereas the other boy did not. Not yet.

"What's your name?" the darker boy said, cautiously. His hands were in his pockets. He looked too dark and pained to be only seven years old.

"My name?" asked the other boy, still standing in the doorway. "Uh . . . I don't know."

"Oh, I see," said the boy. "They haven't assigned you one yet. Mine's Thyme."

"Isn't that a herb?"

Thyme's face remained blank. "What if it is, bozo? Huh?"

The boy knotted his fingers together nervously. "Um . . . nothing. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Good," Thyme said, leaning back against the wall. "I hope you die quickly, no name, because my patience won't last long."

Thyme's breath wheezed. He gripped his side. He leant heavily against the dark-clad boy. "C'mon, C," he wheezed, "you can leave me."

"Don't be ridiculous," C snapped. "Now shut up, or my patience won't last long."

Thyme's bloody lips grinned. "You're a good guy, C."

No, C wanted to say, I'm not.

"You know—" C started, but the voice-over cut him off. Every person in the stadium went quiet.

"Trainees C and Thyme. Proceed to the centre of the arena. Repeat: C and Thyme, proceed forward."

C swallowed. He couldn't do this. He wanted to start screaming. To scream and pull Thyme's knife and stab himself so that he didn't have to do what he was going to do. But he didn't. He just helped Thyme walk into the arena. When they got to its edge, officials took Thyme away.

C walked in alone. His belt felt too heavy. His brow was too hot. His hands were too slick with sweat. His feet were sore; his knees were sore; his eyes were sore; he was sore. He was tired. He didn't want to have to do this. He wasn't ready for this.

Thyme limped in from the other end of the arena. His wound had been stitched up, but he still looked ashen and frail.

This isn't fair.

Nothing is fair, C, said the other voice in his head. C winced. That voice was one he didn't like. It carried memories. Images. Things he didn't want to know.

Thyme and he started at each other. They had ten seconds before they had to start. And if they didn't start . . .

Oh, you'll start all right, said the voice.

Thyme stared at him through sad eyes. "I hope you know," he said, "that I'll always hate you."

The world froze around C. He stared into the frail both warm and cold eyes of Thyme. His ashen face and ragged clothes made him look pitiful, but he held a knife in his hand. He would always be stronger than C. The crowd faded into the background. All he could see was Thyme's eyes; eyes that would stare into him forever. Wind blew dust forward, but C didn't care as it whipped at his open wounds.

Thyme hated him.

"I really hate you," Thyme said. Blood pooled around him. "You made me learn to trust. You made me learn to care. Don't you know how much it hurts?"

Listen to him, the voice urged. He's right.

"Thyme," C said, unable to stop himself from the tears running down his face. "Don't do this—Thyme!"

"I didn't do this, C," Thyme said. "You did."

"No," C gripped Thyme's jacket. His bloody knuckles were white. "No!"

"You did, you bloody coward." The blood was seeping onto C's knees now. Seeping into his bones. Thyme scowled up at him. "You're meant to be my brother, C. You were the only one that I was meant to care about. And that bloody theory worked. I hate them, even more than I hate you."

"But . . ." C started. He didn't realise Thyme had that much strength. When he really studied his face, he realised Thyme was cold and dead.

This is your path, C, said the voice. Other images danced before him. Images of people that looked like Thyme: a girl, crying in his arms; a man falling from a cliff; a woman crying at gunpoint. So many people. The list grew. People bleeding and dying.

"Stop," C begged, clawing at his eyes. "Please, STOP!"

You have no reason to stop, C. C found himself mouthing the words. You have no reason to be so distraught. You killed him. That makes you a monster.

"That makes me a monster . . . ?"

Yes, it does. But then, you've always been a monster.

"I've always been a monster."

Suddenly, a white-hot crack split through his head. Through his brain. Through his mind. He screamed. What was it? What could possibly be so painful?

An eternity of memories flooded his mind. Danced with the fire behind his eyelids. An eternity of pain and suffering; his own; other people's. Pain and suffering were everywhere he went. He killed his own brother, just because he was told to. He was a monster. A demon.

"Yes," he said to himself. His voice was quiet. "I am a demon."

He stood. His wounds no longer hurt him. The world no longer existed around him. His coat was mended. His shirt was black. His weapons belt was empty. He bent down and picked up Thyme's knife. He swung it to shake of the blood. Memories hovered in his mind. The crowd. The crowd was a problem, wasn't it?

"Not for much longer," he said to himself. He'd done this before. He knew he had.

He flung his arm back and then hurled the knife over his shoulder in the crowd.

Soul Weaver didn't sigh, but she looked as if she had. "You soulless creature, what do you need this time?"

"Nothing," C said. "Other than to converse with someone as old and as weathered as I."

Soul Weaver would have snickered if she could. But she didn't. "As old and as weathered as you? Don't so carelessly put me in the same class as you, Soulless One."

"So you're not?"

"I am a single entity that exists through every moment of every time and space in one conscious mind. I am not old. I am not weathered. I am far more sophisticated than you, who has had to live through most time and space in most different existences to be able to claim that title."

"Then can you tell me where I end up?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not there yet."

"So even you can't see ahead."

"I never saw ahead. No one can see ahead unless there is an extreme mutation within their universe. The only one who ever had claim to anything remotely like that was you, since you have already lived through an entire existence before. And that's only in a specific world."

"So you're calling me a fool?"

"You were always a fool, Soulless One."

"Then tell me," C's eyes glinted dangerously. "How does a fool lose their foolishness?"

For a moment, the picturesque Soul Weaver said nothing. Then, "Perhaps you left something behind. The first thing."

Leave a review for the feathered one who wrote this.

- Cat =^.^=

Written by Owl