As he sat on an abandoned roof, he saw a rotting and burning skeleton where there once was a vibrant and peaceful village. Dancing colors of orange and yellow tickled the night sky, dominating an otherwise charred landscape. Ruling beside them were their creators, Grimm of various shapes and sizes, who ran and prowled through the streets. Their growls and roars mated well with the crackles and snaps of the wildfire, giving birth to a twisted celebratory symphony. Beneath their heels were countless bodies of residents, each one mutilated and desecrated in their own ways.
It wasn't the first time he bore witness to such a scene. You see, Branson O'Carroll was a young rogue that wandered through Remnant's hostile landscape for the sake of a kingdom's sanctuary. He had nothing but his sword Bloodhound and the clothes on his back - a black long-sleeved shirt and gray pants of resistant material. His protection consisted of the sword held by a rusty sash against the waist, followed by flechette launchers modified into his gauntlets and armored leather boots the cuffs of his pants were stuffed into. Had it not been for the circumstances, he would've never entered with such little preparation. His world was an unforgiving one - something that marked him via the various, faint scars on his face and the dimness of his brown eyes.
He wasn't the only one affected by it. Throughout his journey, he had traveled from village to village for temporary armistice. His stays were brief, as he tried to allow himself just enough time to recover supplies and strength. It wasn't out of any adversity towards people or him being in a hurry; he always tried being as amiable as he could despite himself, and it was his belief that time was never a restraint. Instead, it was the fact that his very presence put others as well as himself in great danger. In some cases, he had avoided putting others in that position. But more often than not, he failed. It had grown to the point where he was much more accepting of the doom he caused. It was why he was content to sit and stare as their world burned around him.
"Branson." The cause of this curse made itself known to him in a voice that sounded only in the depths of his mind. It was stern and firm. " They are closing in. We need to move."
Branson didn't move, continuing to sit with his arms resting on upraised knees. A soft wind blew through the area, tickling the scruffy black bob that was his hair. Even against the heat that came with it, he was still.
"Boy." The voice's throaty eloquence, already tainted by a demonic tone, was corrupted by a growing agitation. It ignored Branson as he slowly shut his eyes. "There is no time for your crying. If you don't move-"
"Shut. Up!" Branson hissed through clenched teeth, his eyebrows furrowing. "I am so sick of hearing your voice!"
"And I loathe yours." The voice sneered. "I loathe being in this form. Bound to you until death do us part. Being in this form as you're torn apart? That is much worse. I'd rather they die than you. If that means taking control? Then, so be it."
Branson exhaled shakily, letting his head fall on his arms. "Why don't you just do that?" He asked morosely, his anger fading. "You have the power. We both know I can't stop you."
"I can't." The voice argued with heat. "We also know that you can't handle my power. Taking control would cause you detriment. Long-term. If I pushed too hard. Your death would be ensured. It would free me from annoyance. But another thorn would take its place before any enjoyment."
After a small moment of silence, Branson harshly sighed and shoved himself up to his feet. He had to steady himself; the roof was slanted, suffering unnatural holes in its foundation and barely holding together. He peered below, his eyes catching several Beowolves approach his position. One hand gripped the base of Bloodhound's scabbard. The other held the handle near the dirk-pointed guard and just below a gun's trigger.
"Regardless of your vices." The voice continued, calming to its usual formality and stiff elegance. "You are different from the rest. Your ability to survive is strong. Your affinity to slaying them is insurmountable. They are rage. Brutal. Without mercy. But even to them. You will be worse. The "Angel of Death". That is what they called you, isn't it?"
Instead of pride, Branson felt revulsion course through him.
With it, he found the motivation to draw Bloodhound and point it off to his side. Its size and shape was comparable to a katana, with the only distinction being the dirk-like point. Along the back of the blade, a bolt and barrel shorter than the blade was attached.
The timing was coincidental; as he lowered the blade, four Beowolves had climbed each corner of the roof. They bore grins of razor-sharp teeth, claws curled and bared, and bodies ready to spring on their newfound prey. But neither their stances or growls reached Branson's constitution. He stood there with closed eyes and a hard frown, choosing to pay more attention to the spiritual than the physical.
"This is your fault." His voice was soft and cold. There was a twitch of his sword hand and, in response, the Alpha of the pack raised up.
"It is." The voice answered, unrepentant and anticipating.
Branson's mouth curled, exposing the teeth in a feral snarl. He swung around to meet a leaping Alpha, balling his free hand into a fist. His uppercut crashed into the underside of the demon's chin, barely keeping its open maw from closing around his flesh. Aura triggered the flechette launcher, spitting seven Dust dart-like projectiles into the throat. Force and momentum threw the Alpha into the air and, a second after, the flechettes detonated. The resulting explosion destroyed both the head and a large part of the torso. What was left of its body crashed down to the ground, completely disintegrating a second later.
The underlings responded without hesitation, rushing on all fours at their target. One of them let out a roar as it got close, jumping off the roof's surface and lunging.
Branson pulled his sword arm back and extended his free hand out to the lunging Beowulf. The two lead fingers on his free hand served as a brief iron sight, his other hand pulling the trigger. The shot's recoil made the sword swing back. But it was accurate, piercing the front of the monster's head and gruesomely blowing out the back. The swing, driven by recoil, vertically sliced through the head and body of the third wolf.
He did not strike down the survivor. Instead, he turned and ran off the roof. Rushing winds smacked him in the face, but he kept squinted eyes open as he descended to the ground. He heard the angry roar of the wolf, followed by its own leap off. But his gaze was focused on an Ursa Major, whose beady eyes had zeroed in on him.
As it raised its claw, he pointed his free fist and fired seven more flechettes into the bear's face. A few of them met its eyes. In its throes and roars of pain, it dropped its paw.
Branson twisted his body to land feet-first on the Ursa's head, then leaped off in a backflip. His boots and his jump height barely kept the following explosion from consuming his legs. It boosted him higher, allowing him to meet the falling wolf head-on. A backhand swing cut the demon in two, its remnants collapsing in sync with the bear's and Branson's form. Unlike them, he would land on his feet and straighten back up.
A series of growls and snarls caught his attention. He looked around, glaring at a scattered but large number of wolves and Creeps moving into surround him. They outnumbered him greatly, resembling a small army more than a simple pack. His anger pushed away his anxiety, and he gripped Bloodhound in two hands. The blood and adrenaline coursing through his veins was at an all-time high, with every part of him demanding that he fight.
"But," He declared, brandishing his sword threateningly and glaring at the monsters. "You all are gonna be the ones who'll pay!"
What met him in response was a chorus of bellows and snarls before the sources charged at him. He sucked in breath and ran to meet them, his mouth blowing out a battle cry of his own. His form was leaned forward and low to the ground, straightening back up when he was met with the first Creeps.
An uppercut cleaved through a leaper. A redirecting twist tore through another. He raised his foot and stomped on yet another's head when it tried snapping at his legs. While it squirmed and writhed under him, he focused his attention on two more leapers. Two one-handed swings was all it took to render them into dust. Giving the Creep he pinned one last glare, he pointed Bloodhound's tip and ran the creature's head through.
His head snapped up, his eyes locked on an Alpha who had just invaded his personal space. Reflexes guided Bloodhound to timely block its swipe. He stepped back, giving the Alpha a small foothold. Twists and twirls of the arms and wrists allowed Bloodhound to block its fast and ferocious slashes. He only allowed the exchange a small life-span; a particularly powerful swing was purposefully missed by the blade, only for the blade to slice off the forearm. He didn't give the thing a chance to scream, following up with a slash through its knees. He didn't give it a chance to fall, taking the beast's head with a slash through the neck.
Its underlings weren't too far behind. Their presence forced Branson to hold his position, their bodies rapidly circling him. The black mist they emitted created a faint mist that partially obscured their movements. He raised his blade, but the incoming paw was too fast. It swept past his defenses and palmed him in the chest, sending him flying to the readied claws of another wolf.
Putting his feet behind him, he skidded backwards between the wolf's legs. Bloodhound was plunged through the beast's stomach before it could turn around. Quick pulls of the trigger drilled two shots through the nearest, tearing through the one that had landed the hit.
As both of them fell, Branson twisted around to meet a third. But this one was quick; it had gotten close enough to snap its jaws. He leaned back, barely missing the serrated maw by an inch. He leaped, his knee slamming into the underside of the wolf's chin. But although its head was knocked to the sky, its body was still able to clasp Branson's midsection and catch him before he could descend. After tilting its head back, it let out a point-blank roar before opening its mouth to close around Branson's face.
Fury pushed him. Thirst drove him. With contracted eyes and a feral sneer, he shoved the wolf's head back to the sky. Bloodhound was jammed tip-first through the side of its head and out the other. What would've been another fierce roar was reduced to a gurgle, and it released its hold on Branson as it dissipated.
A sharp, searing pain ripped through Branson's back, courtesy of a sneaky wolf's claws. Injury was avoided thanks to the shielding of his Aura. But the force propelled him forward. He let out a sharp yell as he was thrown, tossing and tumbling across the ground. But he managed to recover, completing the skid on all fours. His head raised up at his assailant, his glare emphasized by a brief illumination of his brown eyes.
His sixth sense alerted him. Without thinking, he leaped back just in time to avoid a brick that crashed and shattered into the spot where he once was. Rising to his feet, he snapped his gaze up to see a few wolves perched on nearby rooftops. Material torn from the houses - primarily bricks and other things of a hard composition - were clutched in their claws. They growled and glared, raising their purchases in preparation for more throwing.
With a frustrated hiss through teeth, he turned and sprinted around a nearby house in an effort to get out of their range. In his run, he was met by several Creeps. But like the ones before them, they never stood a chance. Rapid and almost off-handed swings from Bloodhound cut a swathe through several of them, leaving only a select few to chase after him. He paid them no mind, his attention focused on the house.
A single leap carried him off the ground and onto its roof. When his boots hit the surface, he crouched on one knee. His free hand grabbed his sword hand's wrist, and both arms were raised to chest-level. Both the edge of Bloodhound and the elbow of his free arm were pointed at an enemy "sniper", with the dirk-like point being used as a makeshift iron sight. He saw the beast raise its bricks up in preparation to throw again.
A single shot through the head, and it was ensured that the beast would never throw anything again.
Another brick crashed against Branson's roof, close enough to startle him into a stand. But he kept his arms in their stance, swinging his body to face a second and third sniper. There was a split second taken to aim, pull the trigger, swing to the second target and repeat the process. Both of them were dropped before they could even begin their tosses, their items and bodies rolling off their perches to the ground below.
Without warning, he broke his stance and swung himself around to meet the wolf that struck him. He caught it mid-lunge, throwing his full weight into its chest and sending the two of them back off the roof. The beast screeched and squirmed, but was unable to keep Branson from grabbing its throat and placing the soles of his boots against its chest. As the wolf's back made contact, he was briefly surprised when he felt not the ground, but another wolf who was unfortunate enough to be under the falling couple. He gave a hard glare, a point of Bloodhound's tip and two final shots to end both of them.
As the en bloc clip was ejected with a tell-tale ring and Branson jammed another in, he raised his head up at additional growls and snarls. What he saw was an additional reinforcement of Beowolves and Creeps. But accompanying them were a handful of Ursa Minors and a few Ursa Majors. While the latter type mostly approached on all fours like the lesser demons, a few - primarily the Ursa Majors - stood up on their hind legs and towered over the horde. He breathed heavily and sweat fell down his face in rivers, but his defiance held fast.
"Like moths to a dying flame." The voice taunted them, even though their ears could never hear it. "They can't help but be attracted to you. No matter how many die. They will keep coming. Rest assured. Their numbers are still vast. But they are also finite. Keep fighting. Keep killing. All will be silent soon enough."
Branson gripped Bloodhound in both hands, settling into a traditional stance. His lips pulled back, his snarl full-force.
"Rip and tear." The voice punctuated its monologue with zealous eagerness. "Until it is done!"
Its words of violence caused him to scream before he threw himself at their numbers. They charged to meet him.
At first, the Ursas took the frontline. They swung at him, putting raw power and aggression into every strike. Many of their paws and limbs came down upon him, and he was forced to twist around and duck under every one. A quick and precise counter-attack was necessary; his blade was twisted and turned, slicing through the limbs and then heads and bodies of the bears. Although he slew with efficiency, he wasn't quick enough to eliminate all of them before the lesser ilk arrived.
It all started spiraling down into chaos. There were too many creatures of too many types attacking him for any sort of plan. The assault on him was too constant for him to gain a breather or keep the ability to think. All he could do was swing and slice, kick and slam, barrel and leap his way through the horde. Although every sense was on high alert and every motor in his body was active, he could feel himself begin to slow down. Muscle and bone ached, and his heart was threatening to break out of its ribcage. With each and every inch he held, he broke down more and more.
It all came to a head when a Creep headbutted his back. A startled grunt escaped him, but a sturdy foot placed in front of him kept him from stumbling too far.
His heart nearly stopped when an Ursa's claw slashed his chest. The force sent him flying backwards. His Aura's passive shield, marked by a brief light shimmering across the body, shattered like glass. His back slammed into the furry chest of an Ursa Minor, who immediately wrapped its arms around him in a literal bear hug. Its muscles contracted, crushing Branson's form. He shut his eyes tightly and screamed to the skies, his legs kicking at the air. One of them was met with the mouth of a Creep, who eagerly sank its teeth into his shin.
Under the threat of his bones being turned to powder, he had little time to act. He brought his head forward, then thrust it back against the Ursa's chin. The beast, stunned by the sudden blow, was made to release Branson and stumble back. He landed on his back, kicking away the latching Creep. The agony pulsing in his chest and back kept him from getting any further than on his knees and an arm. He shook violently, gasping for breath and trying to regain some sense of clarity.
His head raised unsteadily, his eyes focusing on a recovering Ursa's knees. The grip of Bloodhound regained strength, encouraged by the enemy's presence. Despite every nerve within him screaming for him to stop, he shoved himself just enough to get close and slice through those knees. The roaring Ursa fell to the ground, silenced only by two shots from Bloodhound.
He staggered to his feet, his free hand clutching his chest. His breathing was ragged and irregular, tinted with wheezes and gasps. But after backhand swiping down a Creep that threw itself at him, he lurched forward to meet the enemy's numbers once more.
Pain dominated the nerves. Exhaustion dominated his motors. Breathing provided little relief, and he was constantly plagued with the threat of passing out. He could only see black and white blurs, his senses dulled by energy drain and injury. But he kept going, his heart refusing to allow him a moment of rest. He couldn't register his blade as it carved through hide after hide, reaping Grimm upon Grimm. He couldn't register the high-power shots that nearly tore Bloodhound out of his grip. His body had gone on automatic, with the single thought process of the enemy's destruction running his mind.
It wasn't until an undisclosed block of time later that the voice returned to him. "That's enough, Branson!"
Branson scowled at the sudden interruption, his free hand returning to his chest. "What do you mean, that's enough?!" He demanded, his voice hoarse. "I haven't-"
"You have." The voice cut him off. "Stop and listen. What do you hear?"
Bemused, Branson relaxed his stance. His sword lowered to his side, his ears perking up. He stood there, quietly taking in the sounds of the environment. The snapping of flames were still prominent, although having died down in the time that passed. There were no more growls or roars of the demonic. There were no more paws shuffling through and pounding the dirt. There was only his harsh breathing and the voice itself.
"Nothing." He muttered, turning his eyes every which way. All he saw was the charred remains of houses, other buildings and people. There were no more telltale signs of black and white. "And I don't see anything, either. Does this mean…?" He trailed off, hesitant to speak the next words.
Fortunately, the voice was more than willing to confirm. One could see the smile, if it had a face. "They are gone. Just as I expected. You did it, boy. You survived another nightmare."
And just like that, a burden had been lifted off of Branson's shoulders. A wave of relief washed over him, mitigating the hit of the pain that did the same. He closed his eyes and smiled weakly, his hand letting Bloodhound clatter to the ground. His body became limp, and he collapsed face-first against the earth. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. But the most he could manage was feeble chuckles, his shoulders faintly shaking with each one. With the burden of conflict gone, his body was finally allowed to rest.
As his eyes started to flutter, the voice spoke to him with an almost comforting tune. "Rest now. I will take care of the rest."
Readily, he obliged. The last thing he picked up before his senses shut down completely, however, was the sound of whirring blades and voices.
"Hey! We have a survivor! Hey, you! Can you hear me?"
"I think he's hurt. Quick, grab a stretcher and help me lift him!"
"3rd Carrier to Pilot! We have one injured and being prepared for extraction! I repeat…"
After toil, trial and error, I present to you the first official chapter! Thank you for waiting so patiently.
If you paid the author's note at the bottom of the teaser any mind, then you'll know I have a few things to talk about concerning the story and its development. While I have a pretty good idea as to where this story's gonna go, there are things that I just have a harder time thinking about than others. That's where the readers (hopefully) come in.
I haven't thought of a proper name for the "voice" yet. I've been scouring the net, trying to find the perfect name to call our protagonist's dear friend. In addition, I've been wrestling with the choice of whether or not to give it a name at all. Any ideas for that? Don't hesitate to send me a PM about it.
And... well, actually. That's it concerning any concerns I have about story concept. So, yeah. Send a PM if you have an idea for the voice's name or anything else concerning the story. Leaving a review gives me insight on how I'm doing and what I should do in the event that I'm trekking into bad territory, so don't be shy! But don't be a butt about it, either.
-Gwyn Walker (Chescoke483)