Hey! bestknight32 here! I hope everyone is doing well on CC ashring! I know i sure am! I also like to thank dahlingg for making the base of the story and Tim Baril for making this chapter he really knocked it out of the park with this one! Alright thats all until next time! "One does not simply read the next chapter."
The meteor barreling down out of the sunny sky burned with orange fire, and no matter how many times it happened, it seemed a vast, impossible phenomenon that struck primal fear into the heart of anyone who saw it and made you shudder in sympathy for all those unfortunate enough to lay in the catastrophe's path.
That is, unless you were a psychopath, like Mephisto, who didn't feel such things like fear or sympathy. Not anymore. He stood with the others on the roof of the short apartment building, calmly watching the descending meteor superheating the air around it, clouds billowing around the rocky orb, soon to plunge into the other side of this very city. Whenever he saw fire, it always reminded him of the past. He spoke wistfully, unconcerned for the hundreds or thousands who might die when it hit. "Isn't it pretty? Like an early sunset."
Some of the rank-and-file Reunion soldiers within hearing distance gave him uneasy looks. Even some of the other officers glanced his way, some wary, others disgusted. He knew they didn't like him, thought him cold-hearted and vile, and called his methods unnecessarily sadistic.
Only Talulah revealed no emotion at his callousness. She was one of the few that never reacted to him the way the others did, never betrayed him or conspired to hurt him behind his back. And, therefore, one of the very few people that Mephisto trusted. Talulah turned away from the impending catastrophe and looked over at him, her face neutral. "Report?"
Mephisto smiled and leaned forward on his cane. He was one of the few who didn't shrink in her overwhelming and dangerous presence. "Rhodes Island is on the way. As planned. I assume they have enough competence to make their way through the idiots pressing that stupid bird's hideout. They'll join up with the meagre few holed up there. We'll take them hostage when we capture the supply cache; good for ransom. Or slaughter them all. We'll see how it plays out."
She said nothing, only stared at him. No one ever knew what Talulah was going to do, whether she'd praise you, advise you, or burn you to cinders. Recently, she'd…changed. Or, at least, that's what Faust had tried to convince Mephisto. Mephisto didn't see it. Today, she quietly nodded in approval.
Mephisto, happy as a clam that he's pleased her, turned on his cane and hobbled away. He did enjoy his job. He dearly hoped to see that doctor again. Now, which would be more fun? Pulling all his limbs off one-by-one? Or pulling the limbs off all his precious colleagues one-by-one while he watched?
He chuckled. Silly. He'd rip the doctor's friends apart first to break the strategist's heart. Then pull the man's limbs off. The more pain, the better.
Because people were awful inside, full of evil. They deserved to hurt as much as possible before they hurt anyone else.
The Past
The voice was unexpectedly high-pitched for a man his size and hostile demeanour. "Eno, you stupid brat. How many times have I told you not to caterwaul in the house?" His father's heavy hand came down and smacked him in the side of the face, silencing the boy's singing.
Eno, barely six, a frail boy, was knocked clean off his little feet. Eyes welled with tears, and his face heated up. Then the waterworks started.
His father snarled at the sound. "Don't you start, you weakling! I told you to shut up!" He kicked hard with his boot, sending Eno across the wood floor, though not with enough force to break bones because that would only cause the man more trouble.
Eno whimpered, trying to hold back his sobs and failing. He looked up at his older sister and brother, standing behind his cruel father in the living room of their run-down, suburban home. But there was no sympathy there. They'd endured the same often enough. They'd been through too much pain of their own to have any sympathy for anyone else. After all, no one had ever tried to stop their father from beating them. Certainly not their mother.
The woman had fled the oppressive household years ago and turned her back on a husband that seemed to hate her and kids that resented her for not putting an end to their pain. Eno couldn't even remember her face. His father forbid anyone to speak of her in his presence. When Eno had tried asking his cold siblings about her, they'd only scowled and called the woman who'd given them life a coward and traitor. There were no pictures of her in the house, nothing that would indicate the woman had lived there at all.
His father cast a disgusted look around the room, one that encompassed all three of his children in disappointment. Shaking his head at the lot, he went to the kitchen, the tell-tale clinking of glass announcing the fact that he'd pulled a bottle of home-brewed moonshine from the fridge. In fact, it was usually the only thing in the fridge. Food had always been scarce. When he returned, he didn't look at any of them. Just pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "Get out. All of ye." Then he sank into his chair, where he would get good and drunk. The same thing he did just about every day.
The older two fled.
Eno shakily picked himself up, his face stinging, his stomach hurting. Doubled over, he shuffled out of the room.
The children shared a room across the narrow hall from their father's bedroom. There were no beds; the children slept on ancient futons, long stained and needing to be replaced. But there was no money for such luxuries. Nor would the old man have spent anything on them if he'd had the coin to do so.
Eno grabbed one of his four treasured books from under his futon. Each one had been found while out scavenging on his own, in the trash or in the ruins of someone else's home after a catastrophe. He didn't really know how to read much yet, but Eno loved books almost as much as he loved singing. Taking his book with him, he left the house.
He hadn't gone far when some of the neighbourhood kids spotted him.
The leader, a big, stupid-looking kid that loved to throw his weight around, shouted, "Hey, look! It's Enema!"
Eno cringed, and his shoulders slumped even further. They were always bullying him. It looked like his day was going to get even worse.
The leader's two cronies laughed, and the three started down the street toward their habitual prey.
Luckily, Eno was saved from further humiliation and pain this time. His friend Sasha had been loitering out of sight in the shade of some garbage cans. Larger and a couple of years older and born into an even harsher life than Eno, one that was already making him tougher than most, Sasha stepped out into the sunlight and planted himself between Eno and the three bullies.
The leader stopped in the street. He'd tangled with Sasha more than once and even three-on-one, the odds weren't really in his favour, and he knew it. He looked like he might say something, but Sasha just stared, fearless. So the leader weakly sneered, turned, and went the other way, forcing some bravado into his voice. "Come on. Let's go find something more fun to do than beating up babies."
When they were out of hearing range, Eno came up to his friend. "Thanks, Sasha."
The older kid shrugged. "'S fine." He turned around and saw the book. "Reading again today?" Sasha couldn't read at all, didn't know any of his letters yet, but he liked listening to Eno try to make out the words he knew and come up with stories to match the pictures, each tale different from the last even though it was the same book.
"Yeah."
"Wanna go read together under the big tree?"
"Yeah."
"'Kay."
They weren't big on conversation, the two of them. But they were still best friends. They had been ever since Eno had found Sasha living alone in the sewers nearby.
Sasha noticed the welt on Eno's face and the way he clutched his stomach. "Your pop hit you again?"
"Yeah. He…" For a long, terrible moment, Eno felt rage well up inside of him in a way he never had before. Hate filled his little heart.
Sasha must have seen it on his face because he softly nudged Eno on the shoulder. "Stop. Or you'll become like them."
"What am I supposed to do?"
Sasha gave him a small smile. "Try not to let them beat you. Fight back by being optimistic. When it gets hard, laugh."
"Laugh?" That seemed impossible. How could he laugh when his father hit him?
Sasha shrugged. "It's what I do. Like when I'm hungry, and I can't steal any food. I laugh. Cuz I want to be strong. Not weak."
It seemed too hard to do, but Eno took the advice to heart. He trusted Sasha more than anyone. "Oh, here. I forgot." Eno reached into a pocket. He'd secreted a heel of bread away at lunch and put it in his pocket. He handed it over to his perpetually starving friend.
Sasha, as always, took the food with great care and spoke solemnly. "Thank you."
Before they could leave the vicinity of Eno's home, though, his two siblings emerged.
His brother sneered at the book in Eno's hands and slapped Eno upside the head. "Can't even read. Dumbass."
His sister followed behind and delivered another slap, even harder, laughing more harshly, as if she had to do worse to him because she had to make up for being younger than the eldest.
When Sasha made a move toward the pair in his friend's defence, Eno's brother stepped closer, posture threatening, the look on his face just daring the younger boy to try something, for he was older and much bigger. "What, Shitstain? What ya gonna do?"
Eno knew that Sasha wouldn't hesitate to take on the pair, even smaller and outnumbered. Sasha was fierce like that. So he reached out and held his friend back, not wanting him to get hurt.
Smug, his brother turned away. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Chicken." He and Eno's sister stalked off down the street, looking for something to amuse them. The same thing they did every day. After all, it's not like any of them had school to go to.
Sasha stared after them. "Sometimes I'm glad I don't have a family."
Young as he was, Eno didn't really believe Sasha. Eno didn't understand why his father and siblings were so mean to him so often, but he loved them. And he often felt a deep yearning for the mother he'd forgotten. Pulling his friend by the arm, the two of them headed off to read.
Along the way, Sasha elbowed his friend. "Hey. Sing that one about the black cat again." He loved to listen to Eno sing.
Grinning, Eno was happy to oblige.
One day, a very bad day, Eno crawled into the storm sewer entrance where Sasha lived. He'd just turned thirteen. He could barely walk, often pausing for breath and waiting for the knife-edge pain in his back to subside a little. His father had thrown him across the room this time. Picked him up and slammed him into a table. Now, something was really wrong with his back. It had taken everything he had to get out of the house and over here.
When Sasha saw Eno's condition, he leapt up from the mass of blankets he used as a bed, tucked under a tented tarp for privacy. With a horrified expression, he ran to his friend's side. "Eno! What happened?"
Eno tried to smile, but his face was too badly bruised. "I asked for more food. 'Cause I was still hungry."
Sasha scowled, properly angry. "I'm going to kill 'em. All of them."
Eno knew who he meant, of course. Alarmed at the idea of Sasha getting himself killed for Eno's sake, he put his hands on his friend's arms, even though the position twisted his back. "Stop. I don't want you to get hurt."
Sasha moved towards the exit. "They hurt you all the time. They deserve it. So I'm gonna kill 'em."
"No! You shouldn't…" Frantic at the idea of his father bashing Sasha's head in, of losing Sasha, Eno came up with the only idea he could think of that would stop Sasha. "I'll do it."
The older boy frowned. "Eno, you're too good. You shouldn't."
But Eno saw the hesitation there and leapt on it. "It's my responsibility. They're my family." Even as he committed to what should have been a heinous idea, a mixture of bone-deep dread and a thrill of justice sparked in his heart. He was terrified of standing up to his father or even his brother and sister. Yet the idea of turning the tables on them for once, the notion that they'd never again hurt him like they had been for his whole life if he just put an end to it…
It took two weeks before Eno had healed enough to move on his own, his pain just manageable. There was no hospital of course, no doctor. He knew his family would never take him there, never pay for it. And he and Sasha, living in a storm sewer with other homeless, were barely able to scrounge up enough food to not die.
So Eno lay, whimpering and unable to care for himself, with Sasha bringing him scraps of food now and then while he healed. Even some of the other homeless, as in dire a straight as the two boys, took pity and passed along the dregs of beans in a can or a limp vegetable when they could. Eno was moved. It felt like more kindness than his family had ever shown him. He used that understanding to fuel his resolve.
Eno was crippled, a frail boy of thirteen. He perfectly understood how impossible it would be to physically confront his family. Even his sister could easily kick his butt and laugh while doing it. He had no knowledge of poison. No weapons. Staring one night at the flames in the little fire pit the homeless used in the storm sewer, the solution came to him.
He lay in wait outside the small family home. He could see his father inside, filling himself with bread and moonshine. A few hours past dark, brother and sister returned as well. They walked the streets with the swagger of youths becoming young adults, the kind who've spent their whole life doing bad things in one gang or another. But when they opened the front door, that attitude melted away, and meekness overcame them both. For none frightened them more than their own father.
Eno waited until after midnight. When he was sure that his father would be passed out and his siblings hunkered down for the night, he crept close.
Over the past few days, while everyone had been out of the house, Eno had stolen a hammer and nails and spent time nailing all the windows shut. There weren't many, and they were rarely used, so it was unlikely anyone would discover it. Even if they had, they'd have blamed it on neighbourhood kids being brats. He'd also fixed it so that the door locks could be jammed from the inside of the house and then thrown from the outside, preventing anyone from opening the portal.
As quietly as he could move, Eno snuck in through the front door, his back feeling as if a dozen knives were stuck in his spine with every movement. Fear coursing through his veins, he trembled as he listened for any hint of noise inside the building while he blocked up the locks on the inside of the door. Hearing nothing, he crept further into the house.
First, he filched all the moonshine from the fridge and poured it all over the couch and chair and throw rug in the living room. The harsh stench of alcohol filled the room. Making his way downstairs, wary of every creak, he made his way to the moonshine still in the basement.
Homemade stills are very dangerous things. Anyone with a lick of sense brewed their own alcohol well away from civilization lest it blow up. Apparently, Eno's father didn't even have that much brains. Or he was just too lazy to take precautions. Maybe both.
Eno liberally ran a trail of near-pure alcohol from the still, up the stairs, and into the main room. Then he lit it on fire and beat the hastiest retreat he could, limping to the front door. Closing the portal, he used his own keys to lock it tight, then tossed them away in the dead pushes by the door.
He ran. Or, tried to, as much as a cripple could. He only made it across the street when the still exploded, and the surprise bowled him off his feet. A fireball filled the house; then the pressure blew all the windows out, flames and shattered glass flying through the night.
Eno stared at the conflagration in horror. The roar of the flames was too loud to hear anything else, but he imagined screams, imagined his father, brother, and sister burning alive. Sickened, he rolled onto his side and vomited.
He should have kept running. Should have hid.
A door opened and a fat, older woman waddled out, face aghast at the destruction across the street. Looking down, she saw Eno laying there and correctly guessed who the culprit had been. She spat, "Always knew something like this was going to happen one day. Rotten family, the lot of you."
Eno tried to stand but before he could escape, she had hold of him.
Her big, blue eyes bore into his, her face so close, the orbs seemed to swallow him whole. "They were in there, weren't they? Your whole family."
"I—"
"Murderer!" She bodily shook him, as easily as if he had been a rag doll. "You like killing, do you? Little savage!"
"No!" He tried to protest, wanted to reason with her. A deep sense of guilt warred with a smaller, vague sense of liberation within him. He thought he'd be happier but the idea of his family dying still brought tears to his eyes. "Please—"
She ignored his plaintive cries and dragged him back toward the house and then into her backyard. Arriving at the shed, she threw it open. Inside, a heavy metal box, once red, now rusted, sat there. She flipped open the lid and drew out a shard of some mineral. Then she glared at him. "I'll bet if I give you over to the authorities, they won't a little shit like you what you deserve. Maybe send you to a nice little prison where you have it better off than you ever did."
"Please, let me go! I don—"
"I've seen you and your garbage family about, always up to no good. Terrorizing the neighbourhood. I won't stand for you going to some nice, soft prison. Not a rotten thing like you. You need to be punished for your sins."
"Stop!"
She ignored him. Throwing him to the ground, she smacked him around a few times, then kneeled on him and forced his mouth open with one hand. With the other, she mercilessly shoved the strange shard into his mouth and poked it into his throat until he swallowed it.
He gagged, nearly choking to death, his throat tearing bloody as the rough rock scraped down the sides of his flesh before it went down. Tears streamed from his eyes.
She stood up, triumph in her eyes. "That there is originium, boy. Consider yourself infected now. A murderer like you is going to get the bloody death they deserve. Your body's gonna rot the same way your soul has."
Eno was not very wise to the world. But even he knew what originium was and the disease it caused: oripathy. He sobbed. Then he coughed, an action that sprayed his mouth with blood and left him in absolute agony.
The brutal woman was satisfied enough with her own idea of justice that she didn't bother trying to hold onto him until authorities arrived to deal with the fire, if they ever would. Likely, this even wouldn't be big enough to warrant a response while dealing with catastrophes and gangs and other problems in the city.
"But I'll be sure to tell them who done it, you hear?" she shouted at him as he limped away.
Eno found shelter a few blocks away in an abandoned house. There, he lay and wept for days. His throat was too cut up to do more than accept water. Just swallowing hurt like hell.
It was then that his first power manifested. He discovered the ability to use Arts, his infection having taken root. To his surprise, willing his throat to heal, his Arts made it so. The pain died down. But it didn't go away, not entirely.
His throat was left scarred and tight. Talking was a struggle, his voice rough now. He attempted to sing and could barely warble something that sounded like a dying cat. He would never sing again. The fact nearly broke him.
He felt so stupid for what he'd done. If only he'd never tried to take revenge like that. He'd still have his voice. He'd still be able to sing!
But that self-loathing didn't stick. His mind veered away from it, refused it.
No. No, it wasn't his fault. It was his family's. They'd driven him to this point. The mother who'd abandoned him. The father and siblings who'd abused him. This was their fault! A growing hate filled his heart. And that's when he remembered Sasha's advice.
He'd tried to take the words seriously many times, tried to laugh off life's hardships. Sometimes it had worked, sometimes not. He forced himself to laugh now. The sound was ugly, even to his ears. And it made him laugh even more.
He made a vow. "I'm not going to cry anymore. Not for them. I'm not going to be weak. I'm not going to be their victim any longer. They're dead. I did that. Me. Like they deserved. I win. Now they'll never hurt anyone ever again."
His stomach growled. He hadn't had food in a long time. He was weak and needed to eat.
He found an old, brown cane in the abandoned house, probably once belonging to some senior who no longer needed it. Leaning heavily on it, he left the house and went back out into the sunlight for the first time in days.
He'd barely made it halfway to Sasha's place when familiar old foes appeared on the sidewalk ahead of him. It was the same bullies who'd tortured him for years. Anger, always burning, now burned brighter. Those boys had caused him so much pain. Probably others, too. They needed to be stopped.
Something in the back of his mind stirred. An idea. A vague, elusive understanding. He ignored the taunting of the bullies as they spotted him and drew closer. Then, focusing on his Arts, he raised his hand.
White power billowed out from his hand and enveloped the three.
When Eno returned to Sasha's storm sewer, it was with a smile on his face.
Sasha sprang up from his tent. "Where have you been? I've been looking all over the neighbourhood for you. I thought you'd been killed or something." Then his eyes widened in alarm.
The three bullies that had long tormented Eno mutely followed him.
Sasha made ready to fight.
But Eno held up his hand, grinning. "It's ok! They're harmless. At least to me. Watch." He turned to the trio. "Punch each other five times each."
The three boys turned on each other and began slugging their friends with big roundhouse punches.
Sasha's jaw dropped.
Eno laughed. "Isn't it great? I can heal now, too!"
"You—? Huh?"
Eno told him about becoming infected, which then led to the whole story about the murder and the woman who'd ruined his throat.
Sasha listened in horror and a rising sense of guilt that threatened to drown him. He never should have let his friend go. It should have been him that ended that stupid family. Should have been him that saved Eno.
Eno's turned a little sad. "I can't sing anymore. You can probably tell from my voice, huh? That — that's a shame. But I guess if I can use Arts now, it's not all bad, right?"
Sasha could see the hurt in his friend's eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, that's pretty cool." It was a lie, and they both knew it. Eno never would have given up singing for anything.
And now he was going to die young.
Over the next weeks, Sasha played along, trying to make the best of the situation. But the sickening sense of guilt over having allowed Eno to get into this situation and the despair of losing his friend someday ate at him. He blamed himself for what had happened to Eno and hated himself for it.
Sasha hated the look in his best friend's eyes. There was a desperate wildness there now, a blend of fear and power and sadness. Worse, Eno started emotionally drawing away from him instead of leaning on him in this time of need. That made Sasha's heart ache all the more. And he had to do something about it.
One day, he was gone for hours. When he returned home, Eno was the one worried waiting.
"Where have you been? Everything ok?" Eno hobbled forward on his cane. He used it all the time now.
Sasha took a moment to gather himself, then lifted his gaze to meet his friend's. "I'm infected too, now."
Eno's eyes widened, and he rushed forward. "Wh— No! How?"
"It doesn't matter. The point is, we're both infected. And now you don't have to go through this alone."
Eno looked confused for a few seconds as his brain struggled to overcome the shock. Then a hint of understanding appeared. "You didn't—"
Sasha reached out and grasped Eno's forearm. "Best friends, remember?"
Eno fought to respond, but nothing came out.
Sasha slapped him on the shoulder and drew something out of the back of his pants. "Got a new book. Read it out loud?"
Eno hesitated, then turned to follow as Sasha walked past. "You can read on your own now. You don't need me to…"
"Whatever. Come on." He flopped down on the mildewed blankets he called a bed and held the book up. "You got something better to do?"
Eno fought a smile and lost. Then he grabbed the book.
The Present
While the officers and others met on the roof, Faust lounged in the tattered remains of a couch in an apartment below, his nose buried in an old book he'd found there. At the approach of familiar, half-shuffling footsteps and a regular tapping, he snapped the volume shut and looked up at the young man who'd taught him to read those many years ago.
Mephisto appeared in the doorway. He seemed in good spirits, as he usually was these days. "Mission's a go. Shall we?"
Faust levered himself out of the couch and tucked the book into the back of his white pants and under his black jacket. "Troops are waiting near the transport." He picked up his crossbow from the table. "Ready when you are."
"Excellent!"
They fell into step, side-by-side as they had been since childhood. Before Talulah had convinced Eno to join Reunion and Sasha had, of course, followed him. Before Talulah had insisted they choose new names to begin the start of their new lives with the organization.
Eno had chosen Mephisto from an old folktale, an attempt to give himself a moniker that made up for his physical disabilities.
So, naturally, Sasha had chosen a name from the same: Faust.
Out of old habit, Faust was tempted to ask his friend to sing a tune as they walked, like in the old days, but bit his tongue. Eno had had a nice voice. Maybe he could have been a professional singer; Faust had no idea. He missed the singing, though.
They exited the apartment building. It took a while because stairs were hard for Mephisto, and he refused all help.
On their way to the transport trucks that would take their force to Lungmen, Talulah stepped out into the street. She must have gotten down here well before them.
Faust schooled his face to remain neutral. He didn't trust her anymore, not since her personality had undergone a sudden change not long ago. He hated the way she manipulated his best friend, encouraging Mephisto to become more and more destructive and blasé about death. But he knew how much Mephisto worshipped the woman, and how terribly powerful she was. So he kept his mouth shut whenever she was around.
Talulah gave Mephisto the smallest of smiles, which he visibly devoured with pride. "Show them your power. Show them the might of Reunion and Mephisto. Hurt them and stop them before they can spread their pain to others."
The young man beamed. "I will!"
They arrived not far from the marked location. Mephisto, excited as always at a mission began, managed to get himself out of the truck and spoke to the crowd of reunion soldiers gathering around. "Fan out. Contact the gangsters sieging the warehouse. Tell them Reunion is going to hire them to join us. A fat wad of cash and Penguin's head on a plate if they support us. Any who do should come here immediately."
The soldiers did as ordered. In an hour, a hundred and fifty thugs of all kinds arrived at the trucks, where Mephisto waited with Faust. The goons seemed wary, having no love for Reunion, but excited greed shone on the faces of many. When they'd assembled, Mephisto addressed them.
"Greetings! And…I had a speech all prepared for theatric appeal, but, you know what? To heck with it. Let's just get on with it." He raised his hands and a white cloud of dust burst out over the gangsters.
The Arts worked swiftly, turning every infected member of the group into a possessed. Stronger and numb to pain, the semi-intelligent zombies would obey Mephisto's every command.
Not every gangster had been infected, however. About a third of the group looked around, appalled at what had happened. The only thing keeping them from fleeing or attacking was the ring of Reunion soldiers pointing weapons at them.
Mephisto laughed. "Good! That's most of you. For the rest, here's the deal. You're now part of my personal army. Do as your told, and you might live to see tomorrow. Prove yourselves, and you might earn yourselves an opportunity to join Reunion's ranks. There's always room for more meat shields. I mean cannon fodder. I mean, valued soldiers." He laughed again.
The crowd stared at him in silence. A few glanced around and saw no choice. No doubt, at least a few were well aware of who he was, and all knew Reunion, of course.
"Everyone ready? Good. Now then. Attack the warehouse."
The possessed turned as one and marched towards Penguin's hideout. The involuntary mercenaries and Reunion soldiers followed.
Mephisto chuckled. "This is going to be a massacre."