Prologue

Lucy

I've been surrounded by death since the day I was brought into this world.

Her copper-colored irises blaze holes into the metal ceiling. Ruby red lips, chapped from negligence, curl around the butt. Closing her eyes, the nicotine invades her nostrils as billowy spires of smoke glide across the room like rhythmic gymnasts. Sprawled across the honey wood floor and clad in nothing but a pair of dilapidated jeans and a sports bra, she puffs until the noxious fumes cling to her like a thick smog.

Tick tick.

We thrust our sweaty, tallow palms onto the tiny feeble bodies of insects hoping to stream their vitals and cruor on a wall for the world to see. For the world to see - to understand that when something is unpleasant, parasitic, dissimilar, it must be expunged.

She cradles the glock in her right hand. It glints off the glassy beams of white light that filter through the tiny orifices beside the rafters. She raises it to eye-level, tilting her head to the side. Her fingers splay across the cool grip. Her index finger deftly dances on the trigger in lazy, languid bounces.

Tick tick.

Most of us, we worship God. Whether he's called Kami, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, Jehovah, or whatever, we pledge our unequivocal reverence. God manifests himself into Man. They say God passes supreme judgement. They say God gets to determine who lives and who perishes.

Pushing herself off the floor, she unloads the magazine from the revolver and empties the clips into a silver tackle box. Messy blonde curls and flyaways unravel her loose bun and her damp hair begins to cascade down her shoulders. She soaks the bore and then begins to clean the barrel using a cotton swab. After lubricating the Glock with gun oil and wiping it with a lustre cloth, she fastens it into a briefcase and places it in a compartment within the floorboard. Leaning back, she takes another long drag of the smoldering blunt, liking the way she felt it rot her - defile her; how it made her imperfect.

Tick tick.

Gods are ethereal. Yet, humans see themselves at the pinnacle of the totem pole. If we aren't Gods, then who said us, tiny feeble bodies, could pass supreme judgement. Who said we get to decide who's unpleasant, parasitic, and dissimilar. Who said we could choose who lives and who dies. Who said humans could be Gods.

She pushes herself off the ground and glances at the vintage nightstand situated at the corner of the attic. The clock flashes 5:42 in bold red digital font. "15 more minutes," she murmurs. Reaching into her drawer she pulls out a wad of sticky-tack. Warming up its adhesive properties, she thumbs a piece with her left hand and then retrieves a faded picture from her back pocket with her right. The picture is a tattered news cut-out of former CEO Aito Saccucci. His piercing cobalt irises and at his deceptively sweet grin mock her. The news cut-out begins to distort and she's sucked into somewhere deep within the recesses of her mind. His leathery hands flail. His formerly tan skin turning into a sick off-white. His arrogant smirk wavering into strangled gasps and stifled sobs. His pulse reaching its denouement as she watched the life ebb out of him.

Tick tick.

These 'Gods' walk among us. The venal CEOs trying to launder money from helpless consumers. The licentious politicians who disseminate vicious libel to defame the opposition. The privileged elite who are supposed to enforce law to maintain public safety but instead act as the catalysts for civil war.

Flipping the photograph over, she thumbs the sticky-tack onto the back and attaches it to the mirror. A shadow settles over the dressing table. Photos: shiny polaroids, tattered news clippings, police sketches, line the mirror in 10 by 10 columns and rows. Plucking a needle from her pin cushion, she pricks her finger, drawing a small bead of blood. Its viscous red sheen looks jarring against her pastel skin. Cocking her head towards Aito, she leans up and smears the liquid across his neck. Quickly she brings the wound to her lips and sucks to help it clot.

Tick tick.

I'm from a lineage of these 'Gods.'

Shrugging out of the jeans, she slides into a lacy black, backless swing-dress with strappy red stilettos. With some styling product, she musses her hair into sexy loose curls. Her supple lips are coated with Fire Engine Red by MAC and she's set. She stares into the mirror; her reflection sneers back. Its ardent disgust almost palpable. Casting one last lingering glance towards the vintage nightstand, she stares nostalgically at an empty picture frame before returning her gaze to the door panel. Gently she lifts it up, peers into the quiet study located on the outskirts of her dad's alabaster mansion, props a heel onto a desk, closes the door panel to her clandestine abode, and leaves the premises.

Tick, tick.

Time doesn't halt for you unless God beckons you. As Banana Yoshimoto has said, "the world did not exist for my benefit."

She meanders through the winding monochromatic corridors. Large ornate portraits adorn the walls. Their frames lined with gold filigree and synthetic roses.

"Lucy! Darling! There you are."

A middle aged man with a chestnut-colored angular fringe, slight stubble and a purple Armani tuxedo walks up to her. She quirks the sides of her lips into a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

Tick, tick.

I've never believed in Gods. She did. She was surrounded by 'Gods' on October 29th, 1997. Is that why her time stopped?

She gazes into the eyes of Jude, the CEO of the multimillion-dollar company Heartfilia Industries.

"Hey dad," she croons.

Tick.

Time stopped 20 years ago for me. Levy, I promise you. You won't ever be hurt by a God again.

Sincerely,

Lucy

Deus tuus

Natsu

I remember the vehement exuberance and effusive gusto of that Shakespearean play we'd watch after Church mass.

It was called, Macbeth.

Frosty Alaskan air blasted through his unkempt salmon-colored curls. The Arctic wind hissed and writhed, gnashing its teeth at his beige duster. He drew his oversized plaid muffler closer to his numbing lips before ducking into the silent metal edifice obscured by a barrier of Black Spruces. A pink hue diffused across his cheeks and he stood in comfortable silence for several seconds, letting the liquid heat seep into his pores. Clamping his eyelids shut, he took solace in the stillness of the foyer and allowed himself a moment's vulnerability.

I remember his infamous soliloquy.

Time's up. His eyelids flicker open. His lips slide into a stiff line and he directs his gaze to the silent drone emanating from the interrogation room. Do not play the game; control it; create it. The voice lectures him from the depths of his hippocampus. His palms curl around the cool marble knob and push. Belligerent profanity and intensifying shouts invade his ears.

"Dragneel, how enticing is it to meet the legend itself...or shall I say...the legend's...legacy."

Situated in the middle of the room is a mahogany table drilled into the ground with metal fetters fastened to the center. A tallow, middle-aged man with a perpetual sardonic smirk rests lethargically in a red fold-up chair. Chains dangle from his cuffs.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.

With unflinching impassivity, Natsu gives the other investigator an imperceptible, curt nod before coming to stand-still before the detainee.

"Derek Stone. A 27 year-old alleged rampage killer previously convicted of 5 accounts of first degree murder of the Brothman family, principal accomplice in 13 mass shootings in Connecticut, Delaware, Mississippi, and Nevada, and branded as the "psychotic swiss knife serial killer," states Gray Fullbuster, leaning against the wall. The plastic ceiling fan gently rotates creating a steady whirring noise.

"Someone's been doing their homework," chuckles Derek, folding his arms and leaning onto his fists.

"Thank you. I'll take it from here," replies Natsu thickly before sitting the opposite chair. Gray gives him a silent salute before exiting the room.

To the last syllable of recorded time,

His irises contort into obsidian rock and his eyebrows furrow. He reaches into his brief case and pulls out a manila file containing the images of six mutilated corpses of unidentified youth.

"Recognize any of these individuals?" he commanded. Derek scanned the images in slow dismissive glances before his returning his gaze to Natsu. His lips quirked up into a giant sneer.

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

"I get it Dragneel. Why you do this kind of work," crooned Derek.

Natsu rakes his hands through his hair, feeling the migraine bubble at his temple.

"You crave the HIGH Dragneel," shouts Derek.

The migraine bloats and then ruptures into a throng of tiny whirring shards inside his head, slashing at his thin dura mater.

"You crave the high but you're not getting it from me."

He digs his nails deeply into the soft flesh of his inner arms trying to draw blood.

"You can't get that high from me because you already know my game plan."

He drops his arms limply to his sides and blazes holes into Derek's azure irises, not fully comprehending why he'd allowed the psychopath to continue his neurotic spiel.

"You read my file. I'm the typical daddy-did-me-wrong and mama-whipped-me. You know I killed these kids. You know how I slit their carotids. You wanted to feel challenged. You wanted a case that was electrifying. You wanted a tempest." Derek thrusts his face closer to Natsu's head. He smelled it. Derek's smoky, rank breath crawling across his cheek.

"You wanted to feel afraid again."

His breath hitches and the tiny metal shards in his head begin to personify into physicalities; mental pain turned into physical pain.

Derek notices the flicker of emotion flit through his eyes. He flashes Natsu an acerbic grin.

"You wanted to feel the same fear you had when your daddy got incinerated."

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

His hands slam into the mahogany table. The reverberations make Derek flinch. He watches the Natsu's veins pulsate and feels his heart thunder against his rib-cage, knowing he'd struck a cord. Time stood still.

Natsu retrieved the tape recorder from his pocket and ended the recording. Gray stepped back into the room and Natsu turned his back. He tossed the recorder to Gray.

"I got the full confession. Lock him up." His legs moved mechanically towards the door. A sharp, manic laughter erupted from behind him. His spine felt like a thin layer of glass.

"Oh you'll get your tempest soon, Dragneel. Sooner than you'd expect."

Natsu exited the room.