Summary:
In another world, the humanity got their shit together and won the Apocalypse after almost a century of work.
However, in the wake of the end of the war Evelyn Brown, a decorated veteran who all but spearheaded the victory is left aimless and not necessarily in a good head-space, having lived nothing but carnage for past forty years and suddenly forced into retirement for no other reason than lack of any more enemies to fight.
And she would've likely fell into self-destructive habits if, one chilly March morning, certain Four Horsemen didn't come riding into her front-yard, asking for a place to stay.
000
In the year zero of the Apocalypse, nobody really knew what has actually happened. It was so sudden, so abrupt—one moment people were living their lives, and then, all of a sudden, meteorites were slamming onto the Earth and angels and demons fought in the streets with reckless abandon, ignoring anything and anyone afoot. So few survivors in so few places, and then nothing.
But there wasn't nothing for long. People miraculously alive where they were dead, surviving things that should've killed them. Not all, not even half. Not many. But more than enough, still.
(Only generations later would they learn how they initially survived. How from Death came life and the cycle completed itself. How a desperate sacrifice in the name of family gave them their only chance. The only chance they would ever need.)
Then, the sins were unleashed, and… Nothing changed. Nothing much, at the very least; people still struggled to survive, still thought to form enemy cliques and fight one another for resources like idiotic children. But they began to congregate, ever so slowly. Person by person, group by group. They found supernatural beings more powerful than them willing to shelter them, and for once they knew a semblance of peace. A horrifying sight, no doubt; young people, teenagers and children, hollow-eyed, lost, and alone, fuelled to move forwards only by the urging of their dying loved ones.
'Please, live', they were told. And live they did, out of spite and through sheer force of will.
Fury—Horsewoman, one of the Four—came with them, protected them as they slowly collected themselves. First by cities, then by countries, then by continents. They played smart, avoided conflict, stuck together despite their differences because surviving like that was much easier, it was smart. And if they didn't play smart, they'd be dead.
And so, in the event that should've divided and destroyed them, they came together almost indiscriminately, united in a goal, regardless of anything they were before. Gender, skin colour, personal beliefs, anything else and in-between—those all seemed like trivial things in the end times.
(There were madmen, of course. But in times like these, madmen died first.)
It took them twenty years to recover something close to a stable society, behind walls and underground and huddled in fear. But it was something. It was a beginning. In relative comfort and safety, they could breathe and make sense of the situation. They could find stability again.
The first generation born after the extinction event grew up knowing nothing but supernatural carnage and fear, and from that came a new sort of bravery and determination, as they grew up on tales of The World That Was, and, inevitably, yearned for it. They yearned for it so much that, despite the warnings and please, they took it upon themselves to become the foundation upon which humanity would be rebuilt.
Thus, they left the safety of the undergrounds and bunkers and fortresses and hidden villages, and ventured where none dared to for years. They searched and scavenged and found relics lost of civilization that was supposed to be theirs, and seethed and hated for their stolen future.
Many died. Many yet survived and succeeded, uncovering lost knowledge, hunted by demons, ignored by angels, ridiculed by both, Makers and a lone Horseman their only allies.
But that was enough, wasn't it?
Forty years after the Apocalypse began, humanity decided to be brave.
By that point they recovered forms of communication and energy production but, more importantly—they recovered nuclear weapons. And then, the very humans who once lived in fear of a nuclear holocaust, in turn, unleashed it upon the invaders with equal frenzy to that with which angels and demons slaughtered one another.
And let brilliance of man not be ignored and ridiculed when it came to the art of war; for demons and angels did. And they would scarcely come to regret anything more.
Three of the greatest demon lords then fell in just one day, in one fell swoop falling victim to a carefully planned retaliation.
Humanity didn't stop at that, of course. That was merely the beginning and they pushed back, riding on the wind of their success, armed with weapons made by Makers, and they fought, careful, hidden, still weak, still mortal, still human, but masters at besting opponents bigger and stronger than they with brutal guerrilla tactics and sheer determination. They hid and struck and hid again just to strike when they were least expected, they took prisoners of war and magic and technology and made them theirs and adapted. Their creativity when it came to carnage was unparalleled.
(In a way, they have Lilith and Lucifer to thank for that, for unleashing the Seven Deadly Sins and all the other things in the first place, for that hardened humans beyond what they would otherwise become. It gave them taste of good and evil and the desperation that came with inequality and being so small and so weak even compared to one another.
And that made them stronger than anyone wanted to think.)
They took, they adapted, they learned. They fought.
They created tools of war never seen before that stunned even the Makers with their viciousness, remade their old weapons into something new and something deadlier.
They grew in power despite being at the brink of extinction, and they didn't stop.
Humans didn't discriminate who they killed. They were always good at this, and it came as easy as breathing; a victim is a victim, an enemy is an enemy. Us or them. Do or die.
They were always so good at othering their enemies. At not making them human and therefore easy to discriminate against, easy to cull, easy to retaliate against. So what were they to do when their enemies came already inhuman, already primed for guiltless annihilation, than to proceed with their own brand of carnage?
And the other races saw it. Eventually.
And Abaddon, in his tower with his mind warped by darkness, thought that… Perhaps… Perhaps bringing the Apocalypse prematurely was not a great idea after all.
Fifty years after the Apocalypse began a girl was born to two completely ordinary humans. Her hair was ordinary brown, her eyes were ordinary brown, her learning aptitude was ordinary. She was as ordinary as it was possible. Her name was Evelyn Brown.
And yet, despite her unremarkableness, somehow, somewhere, the gears of fate itself tilted.
("This one," Powers That Be said. "This one will do nicely.")
Fifty-seven years after the Apocalypse began, seven-year-old Evelyn Brown bore a witness to her whole world crumbling as she watched a demon and an angel bulldoze her home, too busy ripping at each other with cruel single-mindedness to even notice Evelyn's parents they trampled on and slashed at. To notice how Evelyn's father desperately tried to stop the bleeding of Evelyn's ripped-off arm despite gasping for breath as shrapnel stuck out from his lungs, and how the body of Evelyn's mother laid on top of her in a last attempt to protect the child.
In their reckless abandon they missed how the fate of the world was sealed in that very moment, as Evelyn's father drew his last breath and the girl herself, through tears and blood and pain and despair swore, to herself and to her parents, that they would pay.
She was found hours later, miraculously alive, protected by her parents' long-dead corpses, her eyes dry and empty and her arms beyond saving. She was put in an orphanage, given new arms that worked if only barely. She suffered the pitying glances.
She turned fifteen. She enlisted with the army. She was given new arms; sleek, Maker-made, and strong, for all they lacked the ability to feel.
They made her a soldier, and she followed with a single-mindedness of a woman possessed.
They praised her as a great soldier, vicious and dedicated.
But Evelyn Brown was never meant to be just a soldier.
There was a charisma to her, a drive, and unyielding sense of duty, to herself, to her parents and their memory. She sounded like a raving madwoman and yet, they listened to her, others like her, whose loved ones and dreams and futures were torn from them by a conflict that wasn't theirs. They listened, and they followed, and Evelyn Brown led them all.
Because as insane as her ideas sounded, it was decided that a visionary like Evelyn was necessary.
Headliners, to carve a path for future attempts. She and all those willing to follow her.
(If only they knew, then.)
Eighty years after the Apocalypse started, the only supernatural creatures to remain on Earth were either the prisoners of war or allies, few of whom were trusted. Demon Vulgrim certainly was the least trustworthy of the lot, but he was also useful. He provided the resistance with weapons and tools and enhancements, and they took and they adapted.
The first thing Archangel Azrael did upon being freed from Black Throne, was to fall to his knees and explain the origin of Apocalypse in detail. How everything was Abaddon's idea, how he tried to stop him but ultimately agreed, how Ulthane helped reforge the seals, how the blame was seemingly pushed onto the Horseman War. How they were meant to destroy forces of Hell for good but Lilith caught wind of it and the demons came prepared.
There's anger there, of course. At Azrael who spent past decades imprisoned, at Ulthane who hasn't said a word yet remained steadfast by humans to try to atone for his sin, at Abaddon who sought to eradicate demons without care for anything else, at Lilith who ruined everything with her careless meddling.
They rage, but it's a rage with a purpose, for now they know where to go.
They know who to punish, who to hunt.
Abaddon knows it too and so, when the eyes of the army turn towards him and when his doomsday clock comes dangerously close to midnight, Abaddon… Flees. Like a coward in the night, he leaves everything behind and crawls through a portal to hell with his tail between his legs. The mighty Destroyer who caused them so many problems up until this point, now subject of their hatred and concentrated rage realizes that it's only a matter of time before they find a way to kill him, and flees.
But humans don't give up. Evelyn Brown doesn't give up, now that she has a tangible enemy, more concrete than 'every supernatural being'.
And then, for the first time ever, humanity leaves Earth.
They don't go to the stars, and they don't go in peace. They go with weapons and machines of war and enhancements and powers ripped from their once-oppressors, and use that which they took against the very homelands of those who dared to bring them to ruin.
Evelyn Brown doesn't remember a time when she didn't fight and kill, for her sake and for the sake of others. She doesn't know how to stop, because killing is the only thing she knows how to do; to quench her nightmares, to bring justice to all those they lost, to ensure that there's no more Evelyn Browns surrounded by the corpses of their parents as demons and angels rampage above.
Ninety-three years after the apocalypse begun, The White City bows under the threat of nuclear holocaust, swearing fealty to the humans they scorned. A year after that, Evelyn Brown drags Lilith in chains before her superiors where she's tried, stripped of her flesh, and cast into the Abyss.
The Makers were allies from the start, but then the Forge Lands fully swear fealty to mankind without so much as a prompt, and the City of the Dead follows suit, Lord of Bones hounded mercilessly by those who were taken by the Apocalypse but haven't undergone cleansing yet until he caves, because humans are nothing if not persistent, no matter how many he kills.
Evelyn's parents are both there, when she goes personally to ensure the pact, for they stubbornly hung to their lives, convinced that Evelyn would find them eventually. They tell her how proud they are of her; how sorry they are that they couldn't do more. She tells them that it's all right, because they're why she's still alive.
(She cries. They move on. The war keeps going.
She likes to think they've gone to be reborn as something powerful, but she'll likely never know.)
Destroyer is obliterated, whatever left of Abaddon thrown into the Abyss. Lucifer and Samael, both bound in chains, are made to kneel as they are judged by humans for their efforts and power-hunger, and no amount of pleading and weaselling can save them from sharing Abaddon's fate.
Ninety-six years after the Apocalypse began, Evelyn Brown leads a first attack on the Charred Council. It doesn't quite succeed, but with Fury's help they unseal and unchain War and take him away, the Council still adamant at his supposed guilt for bringing the Apocalypse even though, at this point, everyone knows better. Evelyn seethes at such injustice being carried out by those who claim to uphold balance above all.
(She reaches out. War takes her hand. It's a start of something, for sure.)
With two Horsemen dead and two on the side of humanity, the following sieges go better and better, until finally, ninety-seven years after the Apocalypse began, it ends, with the victory of those who were never expected to survive, let alone win.
Fury falls, pouring all that's left of her power into the amulet that brings the Council to a heel. War falls, shielding Evelyn from a psionic blast so that she may finish what they began, because the amulet can only be fully utilized by a creature with a mortal soul.
Evelyn doesn't fall. She delivers a final blow to the final Ancient behind the stone, and stands among the rubble, surrounded by half-mangled bodies of those who followed her, many more than expected still alive. Christa gives her a thumbs-up with her remaining hand, Elisha leans forward trying to stop a severe nosebleed, Yelena just lays there motionless, but the rise and fall of her chest is unmistakable. Others gather themselves slowly.
Evelyn, meanwhile, looks at Fury, pale and crumpled by the pillars, at War with half his face singed off, and for all the carnage she wrought, for all she remorselessly killed, compassion is not something that ever truly left her. So, she takes out the seventh seal, the seal of the Four Horsemen that she carried with her since Abaddon's death for no other reason than a thought in the back of her head and no way to execute it, and breaks it on the reforged Armageddon Blade that Ulthane reforged for War mere days prior.
And just like that, the Apocalypse is complete. And, as if by magic, Fury and War stir and slowly get up. And behind them, two meteorites soar into the Third Kingdom, heralding the coming of Strife and Death. But they're late. The Endwar is done.
Ninety-seven years after the Apocalypse began, it ends, with the death of those who orchestrated it and those who let it happen, and freedom from the council's oppressive grip for all included.
And, finally, Humanity can begin to recover the future that was so abruptly stolen from it.
Everyone.
Everyone except Evelyn Brown, who now stands aimless and empty, her goal fulfilled and no way forward that she can see, plagued with new nightmares and no way to fight them.
It begins, as most things do, unexpectedly. It's early March; rainy, cold, and overall unpleasant, a few months since the Apocalypse has officially ended, since the Third Kingdom emerged victorious in a war in which they were originally just collateral damage, since all the paperwork was done.
After attending the grand ceremony, broadcasted all over, being named Hero of Humanity and given too many medals, Evelyn has officially retired, refusing a position of power or to lead any more armies, or to further play peacekeeper. She was—is, still—a machine of carnage. She's not someone who can keep peace; let that be done by other, younger and hopeful people, untainted by the things she has seen and done.
Evelyn has fulfilled her promise, and with it, her purpose. Now she could rest.
So, she retired; in a secluded farm that she bought on a whim in what used to be Oregon in America, way back when these names still held any meaning. She had no attachment to the house she now lived in, but perhaps it was for the better. All her life she only knew either her childhood home, which came with nightmares, or army barracks, which were hardly a home at all.
The house was big. Empty, too, in a way no furniture could fill. All by its lonesome, with its nearest neighbour good twenty minutes by car.
A big, lonely girl in a big, lonely house, with nothing but ghosts to keep her company.
But back to the unexpected beginning; Evelyn hardly expects to hear a pathetic, broken mewl when she's digging through her garden to keep herself occupied, so she's quite surprised to look up just to see a thin, ginger, one-eyed cat approaching her without fear. There's no human activity for miles, and the cat doesn't look like it's been cared for in a while.
The cat doesn't fear her even remotely, and she can count its ribs when she moves to pet it.
She gives it some raw chicken once they're in the house, and takes it to the nearest veterinarian; almost an hour drive away by car. Human penchant for caring for those less fortunate never ceases to amaze her. Veterinary clinics and pet shelters aren't an odd sight, weren't for as long as she should remember. Orphanages, homeless shelters, care homes for the old and the disabled. Pet shelters.
She means to drop it off there, and leave without looking back.
But the cat keeps looking at her with its one eye, and she just sits there with it. And then, before she knows it, she's back home.
With the cat.
Worse; with a cat bed, a scratching post, a bowl, two bags of kibble and some toys, a veterinary bill and medicine to treat the ginger menace for it's cold.
And Evelyn would never admit it, but looking after the cat makes her feel… Well, it makes her feel. The emptiness in her chest that set in with the fall of the last of the Council is abated, somehow, by this needy, furry creature that screams at her at three in the morning, has absolutely no concept of personal space, and insists on sleeping on her pillow despite having a perfectly good bed of its own.
(That lays next to her when she wakes from a nightmare and nudges her out of the haze, that waits patiently when sometimes she just freezes up or jumps at nothing, that doesn't judge her for having knives and guns hidden all over the house.)
The next crucial mistake she makes is when she takes the ginger menace—newly named Rascal—to the vet next week and, waiting for the check-up to be done, takes a stroll through the area where they keep other pets up for adoption. She passes by cats, dogs, rabbits, hamsters, an odd snake even, until she reaches the end of the hallway. There, in its own cage, sits a black, three-legged cat with a mismatched stare that looks somewhat dead. As if it's given up at that point.
Its muzzle it's grey, its fur has seen better days, and it just sits there, waiting.
An odd sense of kinship settles in before Evelyn even registered it, and then she's reaching into the cage. The volunteer in there with her sucks in a breath, as if waiting for something bad to happen, but Evelyn picks up the cat without any issues at all. It looks at her, blinking slowly, then nuzzles into her chest and purrs.
"What the fuck," says the volunteer with horrified amazement in their voice. "That mean old thing tried to kill everyone who as much as looked at him!"
Evelyn hums in answer, and resigns herself to the fact that she's been chosen again, for the second time in the span of just a week.
Life is easier with a cat to occupy her mind away from the carnage. Now there will be two.
Rascal for his part is very unimpressed with Pepper (as Evelyn has been informed the senior cat was named). He hisses, he yowls, he acts very cross with Evelyn for the sin of uprooting his position as the only pet.
Of course, his little tantrum would have held much more weight to it if, by the end of the car trip back home, he and Pepper weren't best friends forever.
And so, Evelyn, Rascal, and Pepper settled into a routine, because if there was something they shared was that they were all beasts of habit. Food at this and this time, exercise at this and this time, work in the garden and this and this time, attempting to sleep from this to this hour at night.
But neither Rascal nor Pepper judge Evelyn for her vices, and that is more than she can say about humans she tried to form bonds with. They didn't judge when she froze up, or when she broke down crying, or when she woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, or when she thought she saw something when she saw nothing. They didn't pity her; they didn't get annoyed at her. They didn't complain that she wasn't as strong as the commercials made her be.
They just were. Rascal still screamed at three in the morning, Pepper still didn't trust stairs for shit. They both hated birds and squirrels and loved canned tuna. And even if Evelyn couldn't feel their fur under her metal fingers, they still demanded attention whenever they pleased.
Slowly and not without help, Evelyn got her feet under her.
The cats, of course, were only foreshadowing. Just a taste of what was to come.
The true change came about at the tail-end of March, after Evelyn planted all the seeds she needed in her garden by her house. It was quite early in the morning, not even six, the sun lazily chasing the night away as the world grew brighter by the minute. Evelyn was standing by the sink in her kitchen, right in front of the window so that she had a perfect view of the front of the house; the empty barn, the haphazardly parked car, the freshly dug garden. Rascal and Pepper, busy scarfing down their food, blissfully left her alone as she finished her coffee and put the mug in the sink. She'd wash it later, but now she was getting ready for her morning jog.
She went to the foyer, put her shoes and a jacket on—it was still quite cold—and left the two cats to fend for themselves in the spartan conditions of two half-filled bowls and a warm home for the unreasonable duration of maybe an hour.
She exited her home, keyed the door closed—old habit, but a good one—and took about two steps away from her porch.
And then she hears it, just as she's about to put her earbuds in. The unmistakable thudding sound of hooves on the ground, powerful enough that she's almost certain she senses it through her feet. She sees them next—blazing horses, coming into view faster than any normal horses.
Evelyn only ever saw Ruin in person, a magnificent creature of embers and power, but it was easy to single out Rampage as well; Fury reminisced about her steed enough.
Hasn't it been killed, though? Or did she get a new one? Or did breaking of the Seventh Seal bring back not just her, but her horse too?
Never mind, Evelyn decides as her morning jog plans takes a nose dive out of a skyscraper window as the Horsemen, all four of them, ride into her front yard, their steeds slowing down from a full gallop and thankfully not razing the pavement as much as she feared they would. She only had it replaced last month, after all.
She is undeniably curious, though, as to why would they be here now. Fury and War she knows personally, but they didn't really seem like the types to drop by for a tea and a catch-up. Strife and Death she only knows from stories; Death more so, for his feat of giving humanity the leg up after the first outbreak via undoing whatever fuckery all but snapped them out of existence in the first month.
"That's an unexpected company to find myself in," she says in lieu of greeting as Fury hops off her horse. "Not that I really mind."
"It's been a while," Fury says, and they shake hands, strong armored arm against a fine-tuned half-magical prosthesis. Evelyn looks around, seeing the others dismount, and looks back to Fury.
A normal human woman would have to crane her head way up, but Evelyn stands at over six feet-the only remarkable thing about her, really-and thus, she's only a head or so shorter than the Horsewoman.
"On the chance I'll sound like a bitch, is that the original Rampage, or…?"
Fury chuckles. "The original. He came back when you broke the seal. Thank you for that."
Evelyn hums and looks at the other three. She nods at War, and he nods back.
"Well, what brings you here? You're not here for tea, I wager."
Fury looks at her brothers, War kids, Strife shrugs, and Death just stands menacingly to the back, arms crossed on his chest.
(Which is bare. In this weather, it makes Evelyn cold just looking at him.)
"The other kingdoms are a mess," Fury begins, catching Evelyn's attention just as she's about to start shivering from the secondhand cold. "The Third Kingdom is also a mess, in all honesty, but… With the council gone, we need to stay somewhere, and only Earth is somewhat fine with us, in the light of our contributions to your side."
"That's all well and fine, but I'm asking why are you here, specifically. As in my front yard," Evelyn says. "How the fuck did you even get my address? Did Vulgrim snitch?"
"It was Vulgrim," Fury says, perfectly fine with throwing the demon merchant under the bus.
"We don't know anyone else. We don't trust anyone else," War interjects bluntly. "None able to shelter us. And we don't trust your government."
Which was very valid, but-
"Shelter?" Evelyn asks. "You want to live here?"
Fury shifts on her feet,looking an awful lot like a bashful kid. "That is the idea. Well, we only came here to ask, anyway-"
"No, no, I don't mind-I'm quite flattered actually, but also surprised. I know you, and I know War, but I only heard of Strife and Death in passing, so…"
"We discussed it," Fury says. "They had heard enough about you to agree. They made it quite clear that it was either you, or camping in the wild… And call me soft but I like my creature comforts."
But it felt nice, a treacherous part of her insisted. That someone, anyone really, wanted her company. That while shelter was their priority, she was the first pick.
(It was the cats all over again, wasn't it?)
"Well, you're in luck," Evelyn tells them. "I have a whole unused second floor meant to have exactly four bedrooms."
"Convenient," Strife quips, but she just shrugs.
"It's not furnished. It only has barebone bathrooms. Not even beds," she warns.
"We'll manage," War promises, but Evelyn shakes her head.
"I have little to do today, so we can go buy them later."
They all look at her in surprise.
"You'd do that for us?" Fury asks. Evelyn shrugs.
"I have a lot of money and nothing to spend it on," she says. "If I'm letting you stay here, might as well make it comfortable, no?"
"We have nothing to pay you back," Death speaks for the first time, voice distrustful. Evelyn snorts and shakes her head.
"Consider it me repaying you for giving us sorry lot a chance," she says breezily. "I'm willing to bet I wouldn't even exist without you."
That seems to surprise but also placate the oldest Horseman.
"But fair warning I'll have to check in with some people that I'm housing you."
"It won't cause you harm, will it?" War asks, looking an awful lot like a worried puppy. It's a superpower of his if anything; for someone of his stature and power to look this… innocent.
Evelyn chuckles. "Hardly. I know you're not well-liked in other kingdoms, but this is Earth. Humans like you, believe it or not."
That was true. Humans were ambivalent to Makers (because of Ulthane) and rather unfriendly to Angels (for their arrogance and self-righteousness) and Demons (for their general evil-ness) but most people had rather positive disposition to the Nephilim due to their personal efforts in the war. The fact that, due to their nature, the Nephilim displayed traits of both good and evil, much like humans, also helped to bridge the gap.
"Anyway," Evelyn claps her hands. "It's quite cold here and I'd rather be discussing this inside. You?"
She's answered with four hums of agreement.
"You can put your horses in the paddock by the barn," she tells them before they move to go in. "Or in the barn, it's empty."
They pick the paddock. It's laughably easy for the phantom horses to just hop over the fence, too. But it's not Evelyn's problem. She turns back towards her house, and the Horsemen follow.
"I still think it's weird that you're just agreeing to this," Strife says conversationally, and—he's not wrong, and it is odd.
Evelyn chuckles. "Chalk it up to a lonely old lady desperate for any kind of companionship," she tells him, and… That's what it's been, wasn't it? That's why she's been spiralling until she got the cats, that's why she was this okay, almost eager, with having the Horsemen in her house.
Evelyn has never been alone. First, she lived with her parents, then in the orphanage, then in the army. There was always someone around, and then, suddenly, she moved to the middle of nowhere with no one for miles.
So, yes. She supposed she was, in fact, lonely, she admitted it, and she was trying to do something about it.
Her therapist was going to be thrilled.
"Why did you come here at fuck-you-o'clock in the morning, though?"
"You've always been up by this hour," War says. "I didn't see why that would change."
"…Fair. I've always been a creature of habit."