Dark Titans – Arc 2 - Big Trouble in Little Tokyo

Prologue

Enjoy if you will, Tolerate if you won't.

The young man knelt reverently at the heart of the ancient temple. Laid artfully at the eight cardinal points around him, were eight candles, each far more unique than their simple colorations would ever lead one to believe. Painstakingly inscribed on the floor around and between each of the eight candles, was the large mystical diagram that surrounded him. From each of the candles, an equally elaborate diagram was inscribed to the center of the circle, right before where he sat, making the diagram look very much like a massive spoked wheel.

He allowed a moment of pride to poison his pure thoughts. To any outsider, it would have looked embarrassingly simple, a simple wheel diagram, hardly suitable for the ritual he hoped to perform. However, to a true master of the arts, the subtle intricacies, the layers enfolded within layers that composed every arc of the seemingly simple circle, would be a testament to the mastery he had attained in his short life to date. Only upon close inspection, would the finite details that disguised themselves within the seemingly simple design make themselves known.

Only the closest of inspections, by the most knowledgeable of sages, would reveal the ancient symbols that he had inscribed into the hard wood of the temples floor. And even then, only a select few would actually recognize the kanji he used, the archaic runes, the strange swirls of ink that had stabbed at his eyes even as he drew them himself.

It had taken him years to prepare for this moment. There had been so many dead ends, Buddhist sutras, Shinto rituals; he had even learned the long forgotten art of Martial arts Calligraphy. What a waste that had been. What use was the Mark of the Gods to a man with his aims?

Reverently, with the care that one usually reserved for a newborn infant, he unrolled the scroll and placed it in the very heart of the eldritch diagram. He dared not to even run his hand down the image that covered the surface of the parchment, though he dearly wished to with all of his being. The picture was years old, as old as his obsession, to the second, and he dared not risk damaging it now.

His eyes welled up with emotion as he gazed upon his greatest masterpiece, upon the work that had come to consume his life for the past ten years. He had never met the young woman whose face was immortalized upon the parchment, except for in his dreams. However, the instant he had finished painting her, she had stolen his heart as if it had been hers before he had even been born.

Her flowing ebony hair nearly shone, even in the darkened interior of the temple. Her porcelain skin cried for his touch, her dark, mysterious eyes bored into his very soul. Never had he drawn such an exquisite piece of art before this one, nor could he even bring himself to attempt to again. The detail he had devoted to the painting was mind-boggling, every hair on her head, every curve of her smile, every fold in her kimono. He had never shown the picture to another living soul, but he was certain that if he had, they likely would have named him a genius of the brush that very same instant.

It had always been his dream, to become known as a great artist, a childhood fantasy at that. Even, at one time, he had hoped to tell stories with his art, become a great manga artist, known throughout all of Japan.

Oh, how foolish he had been, to harbor such childish dreams. No, as soon as he had seen her face, finally complete after months of intense labor, he knew what had to be done.

She needed to live . . .

He knew then, that his life would be forever an empty shell, without her by his side. And so, that very day, he had dedicated his life to giving that very life to her. It had been a long and arduous task. Shinto and Buddhism had both failed him, they were both born of harmonizing with nature and respecting the natural world, the very thought of creating life was an impossibility which rendered them useless to him. As an artist, he had heard of Martial Arts Calligraphy in his youth; fantastical stories of the impossible feats those masters could accomplish. Still, despite the fact that it hadn't helped him achieve his goal at all, it had helped him to greatly increase his already tremendous artistic ability.

It hadn't been until he had decided to delve deeper, into much darker realms of knowledge, that he had finally found what he had sought so fervently. Black magic had been the key, the secrets he needed were the kind that could only be wrested from the frightful claws of the darkest of creatures. However, through barter and trade, in goods so precious and so dark that he dare not repeat them, even in his thoughts, he had acquired what he needed.

Most would likely think him mad, dealing with black magic. But what was magic, black or otherwise, but simple power, a means to an end. His goal was noble and pure, to grant life to the most perfect woman in all of creation. Surely such a good end could justify a dark means. Once his love was given life, he would never look upon those dark arts again. What need would he have to do so, anyway? Once she was with him, he wouldn't have another need in the world.

He took a long, soothing breath to calm himself . . .

Had it suddenly gotten cooler . . .

He shook his head to clear it of all such petty concerns. It was time to begin. Carefully, he flattened out the picture in the center of the circle, mindful to only touch the corners of the paper long enough to weigh the down each with a stone of a different hue. On the corner to the north was a stone of red. On the corner to the east, a stone of blue. On the corner to the west, a stone of yellow. And finally, on the corner to the south, a stone of onyx. Each stone shared the same hue as two of the eight candles that surrounded him.

Next he picked up the ancient scroll to his side and unrolled it with almost as much care as the first. This scroll, however, he did not handle gently out of fear of damaging it, but out of fear of what it would do if he mishandled it in any way. The magic he employed now . . . it was not for the faint of heart. Were it not for the fact that he had love, true love, in his heart, he would have fled screaming from the very sight of the thing long ago.

He took another long, soothing breath. . .

Then he began to read . . . Or, at least he thought it was him that read. As soon as he gazed upon the writings, words did begin to flow from his lips. However, the voice was not his, the words he did not recognize, the sounds that skittered over his tongue the painful syllables that twisted his lips, hardly sounded human at all.

In that instant, a tiny sliver of fear entered his heart, the faintest shred of doubt at his actions . . . Unfortunately, he knew that even if he had wanted to, that there was no way he could stop now.

Suddenly, the candles blazed to life all around him; he wanted to jump in fright, to gasp in shock, but his body seemed to be acting of its own accord now. An acrid smell filled the air as the candles burned all around him, their multicolored smoke forming a haze which he felt very certain should have dulled his senses instantly. However, his voice never faltered, his eyes never closed, as he continued to read the scroll. Oh, how he wished he could close his eyes, the sight of the burning candles disturbed him on a level so primitive, that he had no conscious knowledge of just what it was that frightened him so.

To be certain, the burning red flame of the red candles was slightly odd, though not quite so much as the yellow flame of the yellow candles. The blue flame of the blue candles was almost more disturbing, if only for the fact that he knew that flames of blue were not unnatural at all, except for the shade of blue with those candles burned.

No, thing which truly offended his eyes, the sight which caused his mind to writhe in agony, were the merrily dancing black flames of the black candles. It was almost as if each candle had captured a tiny fragment of the night, only those pieces of darkness were most baleful in their captivity.

And on and on the words flowed, even as he sat transfixed. He stared with morbid fascination, as the candles slowly began to melt all around him. The sight of the melting wax running down the candle and flowing, purposefully to the center of the circle . . . it hardly seemed strange at all by that point.

It took several eternal minutes, at the clawing crawl of the melted wax, for it to finally reach the edges of his beloved work of art. The four corners were touched first, then the top of the sheet and the bottom. However, it was not until all eight lines of wax finally traversed the distance between candle and painting, that it happened . . .

A noxious cloud of bluish gray smoke burst up from the edges of the painting, obscuring his sight as it formed a column that escaped towards the ceiling. Though that was not the worst of it . . .

Suddenly he felt the control of his body return to him, as if whatever dark spirits had possessed him were finished with him now. And just in time as well, as he was forced to cover his eyes as a massive burst of azure light nearly blinded him. The burst of light dispersed to smoke to nothing before it, to faded away to nothing.

It was several moments later, that he finally uncovered his eyes and looked forward, spots of light still dancing merrily at the back of his skull. He blinked heavily several times, to banish the painful lights, until he could at last look upon the picture he had drawn once more.

He heart dropped into his stomach at what he saw . . .

Nothing! Nothing had happened . . . The picture was completely unchanged, unsmugded by the smoke, undamaged by the light . . . It was as if everything he had just done, had not been done at all . . . His shoulders slumped down, as the heavy burden of failure settled down upon them. That had been his greatest effort, it had been all that he had. It had taken him weeks to inscribe the mystical symbols, yet more weeks to acquire the unusual ingredients that had composed the candles.

He . . . he could not do it again . . .

He knelt forward, bowing to his beloved, begging for forgiveness. He bowed low, dropping to his hands and lowering his head to rest upon the very bottom the painting itself.

It wasn't until then, that he allowed the tears to begin flowing.

Not once, not once in ten years, had he ever doubted that he would eventually succeed. It had always been a matter of time, time and nothing else. He had always known, deep within his heart, that his love was pure enough, true enough, that nothing could possibly stop him from completing his task.

Until now . . . He did not cry for himself, he wasn't worth even his own tears . . . No, he had failed her, he had failed her! The tears came faster now, his life was now without meaning, his life was now worthle-

His musings were interrupted, by the feeling of a delicate, perfect hand, running through his hair.

He sat up so fast that he feared his spine would buckle from the pressure. There, sitting demurely before him . . . was her! Even as a man that had devoted himself to the arts, words failed him at that moment. If his heart had swelled when he looked upon her mere portrait, now it surely threatened to burst apart messily within his chest.

To say she was breathtaking, would be to say ocean was but a pool of water. To say that she was beautiful would be insulting, as surely that word had never been used to describe anything so perfect as she was.

And then she smiled . . .

That was it, his heart could stand no more. Again the tears flowed, this time in a flood that not even the gods themselves could stop. Even the word perfection failed to describe her smile, philosophers and poets could spend lifetimes simply trying to devise a proper way to describe the simple beauty of that smile.

Slowly, she rose to her feet before him. He didn't even possess the power to do the same himself. His legs were like lead, like jelly, his legs didn't even exist, in the face of her beauty. Then, she raised her hand, reaching out to him . . .

Finally! It had finally come to pass! His love was alive, his love had finally come to him, and she was everything that she had hoped, and an infinite amount more as well. Slowly, he raised his hand as well, reaching out towards her outstretched hand. It awaited him, hanging in the air, the most inviting hand that had ever existed.

He took that last infinitely short and eternal moment to examine her beauty as he moved his hand to grasp hers. Her smile, it was so beautiful, so lovely, so perfect . . . so cold . . .

Wait . . . Suddenly, in that instant, small details began to make themselves known to his trained eye. Where just a fraction of a second ago he saw perfection and beauty, strange and disturbing details made themselves known. The smile that had stolen his heart . . . was more of a sneer now that he looked at it, a cruel twist of the lip that hurt his eyes. And the gentle curves hidden by her kimono . . . while seemingly perfect at first glance . . . seemed wrong somehow now, as if not everything was where it was supposed to be . . .

And her eyes . . . They possessed no warmth now, nor, he was beginning to suspect, had they ever. In fact, unless he was going mad, they appeared slitted, like the eyes of a ravenous snake staring at her next meal. Suddenly, the hand she held out to him did not look inviting, now it looked like a viper ready to lash out.

This was not what he had drawn! This, this abomination was not his love, it was not the simple and beautiful girl he had painted ten years ago!

Too late, he tried to draw his hand back; to flee for his very life from the creature that loomed over him. Light a scorpions sting, her hand flashed out, grasping his with a cruel strength. For just a moment, they paused there, hand in hand, as he had always imagined . . .

But the monster that wore his love's face was not done with him yet. Her cruel sneer widened, impossibly wide, the corners of her mouth cracked painfully and black ink ran from her ruined lips in tiny onyx streams.

He tried to scream, then, but his lungs were frozen in fear. The onyx streams continued to flow, deepening and widening. Then they were joined, as ink began to flow from her eyes like tears. Then from her nose, her ears . . . then from her very pores. He could only stare in horror, as the woman that had filled his heart for ten years, appeared to melt into a mockery of hatred and ink.

And even that was not the worst of it. The thing smiled wider yet, as it's hand began to flow to encompass his completely. Finally he screamed, though this time in pain, as every nerve in his hand burst in agony. Then the ink creature began to flow up his arm, up to his shoulder, the burning agony following its progress to the millimeter.

The thing stared into his eyes then, it's own orbs gone, replaced by swirling pools of black liquid that still seemed to burn with a hatred that he did not think belonged in this world.

"In your vanity, you desired to bring your art to life," it hissed in a voice that caused his ears to ache. The ink continued to spread, the pain spreading with it. However, the tips of his fingers ceased to burn . . . ceased to feel at all! He stared in horror at the hideous shade of black that now stained his skin.

"And so you shall. Ink shall flow through your veins and your flesh shall wither to paper, but in exchange, you shall become a creature of pure creation," the things voice rang with hatred and mocking sarcasm.

And then the creature vanished, dissolving completely to engulf him. The next moments passed by like an eternity, in the agony of burning agony and agonizing numbness, he couldn't be sure if months had passed, or simply a fraction of a second. His entire world consisted of only pain and horror and fire.

And then it was done . . .

He looked down at his new hands . . . and smiled. His fingers had grown into long, wicked talons, his skin wrapped around his arms, not like, but literally, newly pressed parchment. The parchment was soaked through, a midnight black as ink ran over the surface of his new skin as if it was alive as well. Almost on instinct, he slammed his newly born hand to the floor before him.

Instantly, a slash of red formed under his papery skin, and he drew a line along the floor. He smiled in delight as the ink started to bubble, even as he drew his hand away. Not even caring what he was doing, a blue slash joined the red, then yellow, then black. He rose up to his full height, now suddenly brushing to insignificant temples ceiling, to his delight.

Before him, his first children rose up from the splotches of color on the floor. Even as they grew, he shaped them, chose the first forms that sprang to his mind, characters from the very manga that he had loved as he was a child himself. Four of the characters that had first ignited his own passion to become an artist himself.

As his children began to take shape, another word bubbled up from the infinite and dark pool that was now his mind. It was a simple word, a childish word even, but it carried more weight with it than anything he had ever imagined before. His grotesquely dripping lips twisted into a cruel smile, as he realized what his new name would be. With the gleeful abandon of a child that had discovered his first book of matches, he whispered his new name to his children.

". ..Brushogun . . ."