Seven years.
Seven years had passed on earth - or whatever variation of it it was - and in that time, the Blazkowicz's saw tremendous change in the only heir to the family name.
William Joseph Blazkowicz III; named after his great-great grandfather; was now a young boy of seven years and a few months, growing out blonde-brown hair and shedding baby fat. Yet the sombre and steely look about him remained. It was all too present in his eyes. A compelling shade of green that demanded both an attention and respect years beyond his age.
The young master - to the surprise of everyone - was exceptionally gifted in physical aspects, be it in the sword, stamina training, and archery. All of which for his tender age, the Count realised was the work of innate talent. A spectacular miracle, for not even his trained, older tutors could match the boy's stellar practical performance.
But just when the Blazkowicz's imagined their problems were solved, another appeared. This one more complicated than the first.
Their son... couldn't speak. Or didn't want to. It was too difficult to tell, as with all other matters regarding the enigmatic young master.
Terribly concerned for more theoretical future education, the Countess took it upon herself to attempt to remedy this issue. While she was at it, she thought it was also a good opportunity to introduce her son to the noble social circle, as well as reintroduce herself, all things considered.
And as expected when she accepted Marchioness Porter's tea party invitation, it was met with gasps of surprise and - possibly - condemnation when she arrived on the day of.
'Is that...?'
'Countess Blazkowicz? Why, she looks anything but sickly.'
'Hmph. Most likely sick in the family then, if you know what I mean.'
'A bold move after seven whole years, wouldn't you say?'
The bickering noblewomen blanched at the cold glare the Countess threw their way at the blatant remarks, shielding her son behind her satin blue dress as if from spitting vipers. She had anticipated this much, at least. Yet Countess Blazkowicz was scarcely fazed. If anything, she felt more determined to prove them otherwise.
Spotting a few noble children between the adults on the massive estate, Sylvia said gently to her son, 'Run along, William. You'd best not waste the opportunity to make some friends.'
With an encouraging nudge, she watched warmly as he complied in silence, stalking off in the direction of a group of lively children... little did Sylvia know, however, that while she would head into battle to restore the honour and reputation of the Blazkowicz name, her son would partake in an entirely different fight of his own.
Seven years.
Seven. God-forsaken. Years.
The Slayer had had enough. Just when he thought he was at his limit being restrained to a child's body and - no less - a world with so many rules and structures about it, the one thing he was grateful for was the training.
Though his teachers were; safe to say; sorry excuses for the knights they prided being. They could scarcely hold a candle to him as he outran them, out-dueled them, and outsmarted them in every possible way the moment he was presented a chance to blow off some steam that didn't involve guns and demon guts.
Demons... he needed demons. The world was certainly coming to an end if all the Slayer wished for were demons to rip and tear in order to stay sane a minute longer in this clean and untouched world. It just went to show how long the Slayer lived in an era of chaos and destruction for prior his existence here.
Demons... guts... guns. Ah, the torture!
'Good day!'
A figure approached the Slayer as he occupied a free chair, stressed, tense, yet again going through the motions of a man gripped by unbridled rage. The child's curious eyes peered into the Slayer's, whose own seemed distant and preoccupied.
Confused, the noble child tried again, waving this time, 'Hello there!'
But the Slayer didn't budge. If anything, the longer the child remained at his side, the more they realised they perhaps shouldn't have been. What could a boy his age be thinking of so... so seriously? So menacingly?
'Um... excuse-'
The Slayer stood from the chair so briskly that the child's heart stopped; their eyes trailing the terrifying figure they attempted greeting, staring petrified as he left the room with determined strides. Their hand suspended mid-air, realising it wasn't a young boy they were in the company of, but... a man. Somehow. A very angry and disgruntled man.
And alone, still gripped by the motions of what he witnessed, the boy unintentionally whispered in fear, 'Mother, come pick me up. I'm scared.'
A plethora of things crossed the Slayer's mind as he sat in the cramped, ostentatious room. One of them being - for the umpteenth time - precisely why he'd come to this world of all places. The thought made its way through Mars, the UAC, and ultimately ended with the cause of this entire mess: Samuel Hayden.
Enraged by the memory, the Slayer stood up promptly, restless, powerless to the emotions that gripped him as he left the room. He struggled to keep his wits about him, much like when he was an infant. The only way he could was through-well-destruction, be it in whatever small scale he could manage, anyway.
Grunting in displeasure, the Slayer exited the room and found himself in a quiet hallway. He looked about him for a brief moment and turned when his eye caught something outside the window; a scene that shouldn't have surprised him, but was the precedent for his building rage.
He unhinged the window and hopped out in one fluid motion; his feet landing deftly on the grass. Compared to what he used to be, his child body was overwhelmingly light; something he knew he had to get used to when the young noble children in the secluded garden hadn't noticed his approach from behind them.
At this rate, even a lone imp was capable of ravaging this world.
'Beat him some more!'
'Yeah, Terrance. I think we need to knock him down a few more notches!'
'Some audacity you have talking to us like we're peasants, you country hick!'
The group continued to lash out violently at a figure against the manor wall; a boy hidden in the shadow of a tower. In the midst of their boisterous racket, they hardly heard the approaching sound of shoes against gravel... not until it was too late, that is.
'Hm?' one of them stopped mid-kick, staring at the battered child before them in confusion. 'What's that noise?'
It was the Slayer's knuckles as he cracked them from behind. Not that the boys were given a moment to process it, because in the next instant, the very same child felt a firm hand on his shoulder. It yanked him around, followed by the loud smack of fist against jaw; the strike knocking him out cold against the manor brickwork.
The rest of the boys cried in panic and terror before tackling the mysterious contender in fumbling unison. It's safe to say their efforts resulted in a massacre, though.
It would later be known that there was an eye witness to this entire ordeal. A young noble girl had watched the scene unfold from within the estate, staring in part awe, and part... well... horror, as the supposedly tough boys all fell like flimsy reeds at the hands of a mystery young master. It was like 'watching an immovable object flatten several turds', she would say... but back to the present!
Following the fall of his comrades, the Slayer raised the only conscious perpetrator in a fist with little to no effort, glaring at him in a way that compelled the latter's bladder to burst.
'P-please! Spare me!' he trembled, squirming frantically mid-air. 'I swear I'll... I'll be good! I'll be good! Mother! Help me!'
Not that the Slayer pitied him or anything, but seeing how defeated the kid was, released him after one last menacing glare. Cracking his knuckles as a final threat, the boy wept before crawling off in the opposite direction like a battered toad.
The Slayer didn't condone bullying (not unless it was the bullying of demons anyway), but even he could admit that was satisfying, given his current situation. Feeling more relaxed after putting them in their place, he turned to leave when he heard shuffling from behind. It was the kid they were beating earlier. The one in the shadows.
On closer inspection, the Slayer noted his long, ivory hair that at some point might have been tied neatly, but was now wayward and laden with dirt. His pale skin too sported grime and bruises - mostly on his arms and legs - but in comparison, his eyes were an impossibly clear shade of arctic blue. A colour that seemed to glow, as if charging with power.
He stared straight into the Slayer's eyes blankly, and just when the latter made to walk away, heard something he never thought possible. A voice he thought was lost forever the moment he descended into this alternate hell.
'Hello, I am Vega,' he smiled politely, brightly even, as he outstretched a hand. 'The sentient intelligence assigned to Mars. After running some diagnostics, it seems that this is our first time meeting. I believe a 'handshake' is in order.'
His parents thought he needed more play. His nannies, more affection. His teachers, discipline. But what did put a smile on the Slayer's face for the first time in what felt like aeons... was Vega.
He smirked and didn't hesitate to grasp the boy's cool hand firmly, holding his eyes in a way only an old friend could. In a way Vega swore he recognised despite their positions in history.