Chrono Trigger Omega
Episode Zero Zero
One
Act One – "Morning Star"
The light of daybreak pours into the cave opening and into the weary eyes of the pair that lay inside it. The figure closest to the opening is the first to rise, discovering something dragging down her right wrist as she ascends. A golden cuff of an ornate design and a fine polish binds it, with an equally gilded chain running from it to the other person in her company.
He was an older man in his late fifties, and dressed in an onyx bodysuit from the neck down. If it weren't for the absence of a ski mask, the steel-toed black boots his feet adorned, or the brown trench coat he wore over it all, he'd look like he was ready to burgle something priceless. The leather, jet-black gloves on his hands only added to his cat-burglar style taste for apparel while his shock white mullet and mustache-less beard contrasted against all of the dark colors he donned.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, the young woman in his company was barely dressed. If his clothing style was that of a sophisticated thief, then hers was more in the vein of Barbarella. Over her torso, a white, tattered, and skimpy tunic draped over her chest and a simple loincloth wrapped around her slender waist. Covering her forehead, a golden plate of medieval design held up the protruding crop of her mop of scarlet and unruly hair. The gilded head-band looked like four horns pointing upward and matched the equally gold, serpentine band wrapped around her left upper arm.
"…old fool, will you get up already!" Pulling at the chain and raising his cuffed arm, the twenty-something woman looked quizzically perturbed attempting to bring him out of his post-slumber daze. Her sultry voice carried a unique, but noticeably English accent to it. Until he slowly arose, rubbing down the mane of his hair, she towered over him at 5'11". However his 6'2" muscular frame soon overshadowed her slender, yet firm and curvaceous form as she spoke again, "Where are we?" she demanded holding up her cuff and chain in front of him, "Are you behind this?"
"Lass…I don't even know who you are…" he muttered, revealing a Scottish accent and recovering from a sleep worse than hers, apparently. However, the Scotsman was slowly coming out of his grogginess. The woman was at first surprised at his remark, but then became even more annoyed with him, dragging him to the opening of the cave they had aroused inside.
The both stopped just short of the steep slope of a mountainside, facing a tremendous and lush valley below. For as far as the eye could see, there were fields of flowers – and in all colors of the spectrum. The various fields had surrounded a thick forest at the center of the valley, where the leaves of it's foliage appeared to be pitch-black from where the pair happened to be roosted – a good 1500 yards from ground level. If the alluring scenery below weren't sensory overload enough, what they spotted next would send them reeling.
Ahead of the miles-long forest and further in the distance, they both spotted a sprawling estate surrounded by a modest fence-like wall. The design of the manor was oriental influenced, leaning more to Japanese-aesthetics in architecture. In its courtyard were even more flowers, containing all the colors and varieties that could be found in the surrounding fields. Behind the manor laid a waterfall and the river that ran from it traveled through the manor, the forest, and right back to the lake that lay at the foot of the mountain the pair found themselves within. Its crystal blue, cool waters beckoned to both of their parched throats, dry from their heavy slumber.
"What is this place?" the older man questioned, more to himself than to the woman that accompanied him.
"I thought that you might know, Macbeth," the woman returned, awed by the sight of it all, "if it were only nighttime…then we wouldn't have to climb down-"
"Who are you?" Macbeth, the Scotsman, interrupted her, a far more serious and alert expression to his voice and face, "Something about you is familiar, but you can't be who I'm thinking of."
"And what if I was?" the woman's eyes narrowed and a malicious smile formed over her luscious lips as she stood upright to face him. Despite his size and gender, he could see that the woman had no fear in her eyes and a familiar sparkle that confirmed his suspicions.
"Demona…?" astonishment overwhelmed Macbeth as his eyes drink in the sight of her. His gaze faded into a glare as she stepped back to anticipate his next move, "This is too funny. The so-called extinguisher of all humans is now one herself?"
"If life has taught us anything, old man, is that it is full of irony," she remarked, not pleased about her "predicament", "now, how about we climb down from here and find out where we are."
"I've got a better idea, 'old friend'," Demona, the redhead, found herself in the vice grip embrace of the Scotsman and he wasted no time throwing the both of them to the mercilessness of gravity.
Demona found herself watching the shallow waters of the lake below speed closer into view as she and Macbeth spiraled headfirst to imminent doom. Unable to break free of Macbeth's hold, she cursed him for his suicidal tendencies as their tumultuous lives would come to a crashing end.
"You bastard!" in her grief and rage, she shouted, "I can't believe you would choose a coward's way out like this!"
"I don't owe you an honorable death, Demona," Macbeth retorted, looking like he had reached a new level of inner peace before the inevitable, "just a swift one."
"Dammit! Release me!" she desperately tried to claw him with her fingernails, but his embrace only grew tighter, "I won't die like this! I refu-" her pleas were halted as the golden ties that bonded them both began to emanate an enchanting light. Materializing around them was an orb of light with them safely at the center as the pairs' descent slowed to a gentle stop. Two feet above the surface of the lake.
"What is this sorcery?" Macbeth asked in annoyance while Demona breathed a sigh of relief. As he looked into her eyes, he could see that they were brimming with tears, but he only caught a glimpse of her fragility before something unexpected happened. The glow faded from the golden links and the orb of light popped like a bubble, suddenly returning the two a much safer drop as they spilled into the lake.
Drenched from head to toe and thrashing about in the water, Demona pounced on top of him throwing her fist across his face. Suddenly, she had also reeled as if she had been punched, sadly a victim to the "curse" that plagued them both. Dazed from her own assault, Macbeth wrapped his hands around her neck and plunged her underneath the cool waters of the once-tranquil lake. She was now gasping for air and being strangled at the same time, while the expression of Macbeth mirrored the same discomfort.
It felt like a wave of electric current washed over his body as his golden cuff alighted and ravaged him with a viscous injection of mystic energy. His death throttle of Demona's throat immediately released right before she almost lost consciousness, springing up out of the lake as Macbeth was about the fall face forward into it. Although almost dying twice in one day had shaken her to her very core, she was surprised to find that he was immobilized from the shock he received and that she had felt none of it. And they couldn't have been any closer in proximity, either. Demona had become an emotional wreck as she pushed the Scotsman off of her, leaving him to float motionless on his back as she gripped the soft floor of the lake and cried. From her recollection, it had been a long time since she resigned herself to a good bawling.
The lids of his eyes flew open as he gazed at a familiar ceiling. He instinctively slid his hand over his heart where he thought he was impaled the night before, realizing the mortal wound he incurred was no longer there. Maximillian Ramnarine slowly sat up in the bed of his room, looking around for any signs of the event that occurred last night, but even the glass doors of his balcony were closed – the place where he remembered meeting his "unexpected guests" the night prior. Wanting to believe the experience he endured in the twilight was only a dream, he knew better. His body "told" him otherwise…
His mind still rang from the pain of its regeneration, or "flashfire interlude" as Ramnarine lovingly called it. His body sluggish and heavy from the recovery it was still undergoing from the damage he received. Although he was now free from the pain he experienced earlier, he was certain of one thing.
He had died hours earlier. However, why he was alive again wasn't mystery to him.
Finding himself in just his boxers again, Max found where he laid his favorite blue t-shirt nearby and threw it on. On the front of the shirt is a futuristically styled letter "Z" colored red with a break within the center of the letter's width that was also in the shape of a "Z". Jumping into a pair of black sweatpants that was draped over the same chair as the shirt, he emerges from his bedroom, still groggy but looking for something – anything that would prove that his battle last night had happened. Shuffling to the staircase of his mansion, his plan was to go downstairs and outside to the courtyard to find signs of his battle with the tri-clops. When he spotted what lay ahead of him at the bottom of the staircase, he realized that he wouldn't have to travel as far as he first thought.
"Good morning, Maximillian," a voice he immediately recognized was the first thing that alerted him before looking down on the floor of the mansion's main entrance. His eyes caught sight of three alluring Caucasian women, all dressed elegantly and identically. Each one in the trio was indistinguishable from the next, save for their long flowing hair. The one seated on the foot of the steps adorned a jet-black mane, while a blond one stood against the end of the banister on the opposite side. At the center, standing on the floor, was the third whose hair was unnaturally white for her young age. They all resembled women in their twenty-somethings and were dressed in gowns that dated back to a previous day and age, such as medieval times.
Ramnarine was taken aback slightly by their instant appearance, before mustering up enough guile to approach them. As he descended the staircase, he worried that if he would have to resort to defending himself again, would he be up to par while still recovering from the beating he took the night prior. He resigned himself to buying time and resorting to finding out what the women wanted. At the back of his mind, he knew this reeked of something bad, and that their appearance could be linked to the very thing he had been running from – in his dream and his reality.
"Morning, ladies…" Nightrunner spoke with a bit of hesitance, "I'd welcome you but it looks like you've already made yourself at home. What can I do for you?" he'd almost said those words through clenched teeth as he was still unnerved that they had even found his home in the first place. And the fact that they had bested him hours earlier. At this point, he had eaten enough humble pie that he could have skipped breakfast.
"Thank you for your audience, Maximill-"
"Wait," he sighed, interrupting one with snow-white hair, "'Max' is just fine. Someone I once knew used to always call me 'Maximillian' and it only reminds me of her when others do it," he took the liberty to sit on the center of the last few stairs, next to the raven-haired one, "She's someone that I'd rather forget if I can help it."
"Would you prefer to be called 'Nightrunner'?" asked the raven one next to him, appearing to sound innocent, but for her to know that name sent shivers down his spine. He wanted to jump to his feet and make some distance between him and the women, but he calmed his nerves and remained seated, trying to remain cool under the growing pressure. It suddenly dawned on him that they had referred to him as "Nightrunner" when they first met, so the shock of hearing the second utterance of it wasn't as bizarre. Exactly how much did these women know about him, he wondered, afraid that he might be manipulated by them like he had been by others in the past. Another reason for his self-exile.
"I-It's astonishing that you even know about that old 'nickname'," he remarked with a fake smile, "Someone really has been talking. Mind telling me who?"
"We've always have been watching you," the blonde chimed in, "when we caught a glimpse of you during one of your exploits many years ago, we have never lost sight of you since."
"I-Is that so?...Then…who are you ladies, really?" Ramnarine was completely awestruck with their presence and their cryptic words, wanting them to get to the point already. To get to the bottom of things, however, he'd have to pace the conversation or risk the chance of finding out their true angle. After a wealth of experiences of dealing with others, Max had become incredibly observant of people as well as very untrusting of strangers. Taking others at face value was a quick way to get killed – a self-taught lesson that he was reintroduced to thanks to a Katana Sword not too long ago.
"You've heard of the island of Avalon, haven't you?" the blonde started, "We all live there and have for quite some time, "she brushed locks of her hair aside to reveal her ear – and that it was pointed like an elf's. Ramnarine's eyes widened as he experienced a brief flash of reminiscence of someone from his past. Tilting his head, he put his face in right palm and clutched the locks above his forehead for a moment. Triggered by the memory of this person, feelings of grief, heartbreak, betrayal, and hatred raced throughout him. However, they quickly subsided as he pulled himself back to the present. Once he ran his hand through his hair he raised his head to look at them again, noticing that the women were no longer hiding their enchanted heritage underneath their flowing manes, "My name is 'Selene'," the blonde continued, finally introducing herself.
"You can call me 'Phoebe'," the raven haired maven slid closer to him, beaming when she spoke and increasing the tension that was growing within him. Being in the center of a den of snakes would have felt more calming to Nightrunner than what he was enduring at that moment. He had thought to himself how stupid he was for his actions the previous morning when he "deactivated his 'security blanket'" for maintenance. It took all his concentration to hold in a nervous snicker to when he wished he could go back in time to correct that mistake. Irony, especially his own, had always been humorous to Ramnarine.
"And I am 'Luna'," the silver haired one finally chimed, "But the mythological legends of mortals have dubbed the three of us-"
"The Weird Sisters?" Max couldn't wait to say it, since he already knew when Selene mentioned Avalon, "I've met a lot of characters in my time, but I didn't think I'd run into the legendary enchantresses that Shakespeare wrote about. But I thought your names were Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos?...Respectively…"
"Just one of the many inaccuracies from the pen of William Shakespeare," Phoebe smiled, appearing to be the friendliest of the trio, "you wouldn't believe what else his 'artistic license' stretched the truth about."
"I'd bet I would," he returned her smile, albeit nervously, "If you've been watching me for as long as you say, then you know I've 'been around', right?"
"Of course," added Luna with a smirk, "matter of fact, because of 'that', you share a lot in common with the two people we wish for you to meet."
"Two…who? What are you talking about?" he couldn't help but ask.
"That's why we come all this way to see you, Max," the seemingly cold Selene answered, "We have a favor to ask of you…"
A gentle and cool breeze roused him to his senses. The onyx leaves of the tree he laid under were the first things he noticed as he laid on his back staring up at the little sunlight that could penetrate its foliage. They swayed gently in the flower-scented wind. His eyes looked straight forward while he sat up, spying the shore of lake he had fell into earlier. They were only a few meters away from it, he observed, still soaking wet from its shallow depths. Before he looked beside him to find the inevitable, she made herself known.
"I fucking despise you," were the first words out of Demona's mouth. She sat up against the trunk of the tree and couldn't wait to tell him, all the while, refusing to look at him. Her cheeks were still swollen from her sobbing minutes before, and she had only calmed down after dragging them both under the shade.
"Believe me…the animosity is more than mutual," Macbeth returned.
"If I could, I'd kill you and put you out of both our misery…but I can't, you know that," she lamented, "there's still too much I have to do."
"I would end this right now, lass, but it looks like whoever made these chains also bewitched them to prevent either of us from causing serious harm to the other," the Scotsman speculated, still tingeing from the sting of his shocking experience.
"And I'm certain it was the 'Weird Sisters'," the redhead had also been deducing the cause of their circumstances, "if it wasn't for them tying us together and dropping us in the middle of nowhere, I would have to thank them for thinking of that."
"Those wenches have manipulated the both of us for too long," Macbeth rose, forcing Demona to do so as well. They both dusted as much earth off of their lake-drenched bodies as they could as they turned to the forest a mile in the distance. A field of blue roses lay between them and the mass of trees, with a narrow path running through the bed of azure flowers, "what do you think they want from us this time?"
"Hell if I know," Demona sighed, her eyes lost in the bed of strangely colored flowers, "but I do have an idea. That estate we spotted earlier…if we go there, we might find some answers."
"I'm not sure how your twisted logic brought you to that conclusion, but it is the only sign of civilization we've found so far," he physically concurred starting off toward the path in the midst of the blue roses, "if anything, we might find food and shelter there."
"Not to mention, humans," she sneered at the thought.
"That I'm not sure about, actually," he retorted with both of them now treading on the path, the fragrance of the roses doused the air around them, "if the Sisters are involved and they have something to do with that place, Lord knows what we'll find when we arrive," he was forced to stop his stride when Demona's curiosity got the best of her.
"Your 'God' just might not know about this place…" she said, picking one of the roses and drinking in it's aroma, "after all, I'm sure he didn't make this…" she passed it to him and he immeadiately noticed what her cryptic words meant.
"No thorns…" he was amazed, "must be a special breed of rose, but scientifically altered to grow without them. And on top of that, they're growing wild like this? Are they all like that?"
"From the looks of it. I'm no expert in cultivating, but isn't that a crime against nature?" Demona rose, putting another rose in her hair while Macbeth gently placed his into an inside pocket in his trench coat.
"To rob a rose of its thorns is indeed a blasphemous act," for once in a long while Macbeth agreed with her, "do you believe the Sisters would do something so heinous?"
"As much as I hate them, I don't think so," Demona surprised him with her response as they began their journey again, "if I were to wager a guess, I'd bet what was behind this was a-"
"Human?" he guessed and Demona nodded with an all-knowing smile. He realized the surprise he felt was premature, "Same old Demona…well, almost. There's been something that's been bothering me since our reuniting. Why are you now what you hate most?" A sigh erupted from her on the advent of his inquiry; Demona knew he'd eventually ask.
"You can say that I…asked for it…" she mournfully started.
"So you're asking me for a miracle, basically?" Max commented, processing their request and echoing back at them in layman's terms, "These 'proxies' under your 'care and guidance' are now out of your control and you would like me to 'discipline' them into working together?"
"That's exactly right," Luna spoke as they all walked down a long hallway of the manor. The room at the end of the corridor was their destination, "It may seem impossible, but if there's anyone that can make it happen, it's you Max."
"Why would I want to rob two arch-nemeses of the pleasure of having it out? You ladies know my past right? If so, I'm the last person you want to be asking this. I have, er…had a nemesis, myself."
"That's why you're the perfect person for this," Phoebe hooked her arm around his, acting very familiar with him as she pulled up closer to him while walking, the other two women followed close behind, "Your own harrowing experience with your own enemy was a painful one wasn't it? Much like you, our 'proxies' used to be close friends once upon a time."
"History's greatest rivals usually start out as the best of comrades," Max remarked, almost regretfully while coming to a stop at the entrance of the doors that marked the end of the hallway. He opened the double doors in grand fashion to reveal a feast to the audiophile's eyes.
Even the Weird Sisters paused at the sight of a grandiose music room. Many instruments adorned the lower part of the wall on the far opposite side of the room, from guitars to bagpipes, drums to xylophones – practically every analog musical device you could think of. Off to the left side of the room was an extensive library of vinyl records, some dating back to when the format was established. From the look of it, one would think that Ramnarine might just have every album published in the history of music – but they would be wrong. His collection was short 12 albums, and unless he could travel back in time to get them they would elude him forever. Besides, to Nightrunner, that would be cheating…
Towards their right, lay a comfortable looking area to enjoy whatever music would fill the room. Plush sofas, beanbags, coffee tables, game boards, ottomans, a simplistic-looking record player, and other articles of recreational furniture surrounded by a ring of roses, all of different colors and varieties. Running through the center of the music room's floor was the irrigation provided for the bouquet – the river that ran from the waterfall behind the manor to the mountain that book-ended the valley the mansion was nestled in. It was underneath a transparent section of the music room's marble floor; although that would lead one to ask the question 'how could someone create see-through marble?' Another one of the many mysteries behind Ramnarine and his unique refuge.
The river was exposed from the doorway towards the center of the back wall of the room where the instruments could be found, yet you couldn't hear it rushing current unless you listened very closely. The transparent marble section was a straight line, measuring ten feet wide – save for the center of the room where one would spy a clear circle twice as wide in diameter. A grand piano, lacquered in jet-black finish rested atop it, complete with a matching stool. The group picked up the pace again with the piano as their next stop.
"Isn't that tragic, Max?" Selene, the blonde, asked him, "Do you wish for the same tragedy that happened to you on others?"
"No…but if people can't work out their own problems, then it's only inevitable that they'll destroy each other, despite my intervention," Ramnarine returned, "I'm no miracle worker or even a decent 'sensei'."
"What about 'motivation'?" Luna asked stopping him in his tracks at the piano stool. As Nightrunner turns around to face her, she continues, "If you provide a miracle for us, we will bestow one upon you as well."
"What exactly do you mean?" the accommodating disposition of Max Ramnarine quickly faded into a deathly serious expression, with his voice shifting to a deeper, intimidating tone. Phoebe could feel his body turn ice-cold and released his arm, retreating between her sisters.
"What you have lost…" Luna pointed behind and above him, "you can finally have returned, with our help."
Nightrunner eyes widened to that of dinner plates, knowing precisely to what she was referring. He didn't even have to look at what she was pointing to, already trying had not to glance at it as they entered the music room. At the top of the walls all around the room, masterfully painted portraits could be found. One appeared to be of a family of Nubian descent. There appeared to be a mother & father, surrounded by five children; four girls and one boy. To top it off, two of the youngest girls were identical twins; one smiling while the other smirked at the portrait's forefront.
However that was not what Luna had directed him to. Neither were the other portraits of various landscapes and even one of Earth itself as viewed from it orbit. Where the transparent marble walkway ran into the wall at the far end of the room, far above it at the top center rested the most awe-striking one of them all. A field of roses of all colors decorated the bottom of the depiction, caught in mid sway from a gentile breeze. At the center of the field, a lone, petite woman stood with her sky blue sundress blowing in the wind. She had an irresistible smile and a natural beauty that came along as rarely as diamonds. The warmth from her deep brown eyes were enough to make anyone pause and take notice, while richness of her cocoa-colored complexion left one to wonder if it had been painted on by God himself. Along with her dress, her long locks of midnight drifted in the wind, framing her alluring, beaming face. The stem of a red, thorn-less rose rested between her graceful fingers as she held it with both hands towards anyone fortunate to view her portrait.
Max slumped down onto the piano stool, still processing Luna's words as his heart started to race. He found the courage to gaze up at the women again as he found all three looking at the mystery girl's painting.
"The perfect woman…" Phoebe remarked, "That's what she was to you, wasn't she?"
"Maybe too perfect," Selene countered. The icy chill of her voice prompted Ramnarine to speak again.
"It's not possible…" Nightrunner's body quivered. His hands clenched at his pants and his voice strained, "I've tried everything…"
"Everything…" Luna responded with confidence, "but magic…" those words snapped up his full attention, "rest assured, we have the ability to reunite you with Xia," the mention of the girl's name shook him to his core. It took him a bit to center his emotions, appearing to be a bit wobbly as he stood again. Gone from his eyes was any of the fear and uncertainty that flooded them before, the Sisters noticed. All that remained in them was determination.
"But only if I help you first…" Ramnarine said, the tone behind his voice showed his demeanor changed to strictly business, "What else should I know about these subordinates of yours before they arrive?"
"How about that?" Macbeth laughed while Demona scowled, "Another one of Oberon's children cursed you into becoming human instead of stone during the day," he surmised as they continued their walk underneath the canopy of the dense forest. The path continued to run through it, but it looked like it hadn't been used in some time. The pair was already a mile into the forest as Demona had wrapped up her explanation, "sure sounds like something that prankster Puck would do."
"You would find my misery entertaining," returned Demona, as she was their guide on their journey. The canopy of foliage around them was so thick, the high noon sunlight barely pierced their coverage. Her eyes glowed with a demonic red aura, enabling her with the "night vision" her true form was genetically blessed with, "at least as a human, I'm not completely helpless," she said referring to her special gift of sight.
Well into the second mile, Macbeth was caught off-guard when Demona stopped suddenly. He noticed her concentrating her gaze on something in the distance, coaxing him to ask what she spotted. Remaining mum on the subject, she led him the direction of what she eagle-eyed. Within 50 yards of their goal, he finally could see it despite the dim light and even he started to pick up the pace, despite Demona's wariness of the structure.
Not too far from a clearing ahead stood a cabin amongst the trees. It was a modest home, and with no light emanating from inside, it appeared to be abandoned as well. It took everything Demona had to keep Macbeth behind some nearby trees so that they could keep what element of surprise they had left, just in case some not so friendly folks did reside inside.
"Let's forget about this place," she suggested, "it looks vacated, and I'm sure there's nothing inside that we can use."
"Not even food?" he retorted, "Don't tell me that you of all people are afraid of what we might discover inside. I thought you were made of sterner stuff, Demona."
"I just have a bad feeling…that's all," she bit back, "I didn't survive this long by ignoring my instincts. This has 'trap' written all over it."
"So does that mansion, yet you insist on going there," Macbeth stated, "enough of this, I'm knocking on the door. If no one answers then we're going in," he rose, leaving Demona to curse as she was left with little choice but to follow. Scaling up the handful of steps up onto the cabin porch, the Scotsman rapped on the front door. With no response from the first attempt, he announced himself and asked if anyone was inside. Still, no dice. Just as he began to knock again, Demona grabbed his wrist to stop him.
"Did you hear that?" she asked, putting her ear against the door. Macbeth was too busy making noise to know what she was talking about, placing his ear on the door as well and just in time to catch what she heard seconds before. The faint moan of someone – or something – in severe pain, ruptured from inside the cabin.
The four had returned to the mansion's foyer once more, where Nightrunner appeared to be mulling something over in his mind. The trio of enchantresses watched him intently, as he was about to speak after a silence that didn't seem to want to break..
"I'll give your proposal some serious thought," he simply said, "and by the time your 'warriors' get here, I'll have an answer for you."
"Fair enough, Max Ramnarine," Selene approved, "we will continue to watch you from Avalon and hope that you will find favor with our request."
"You do that…" he turned around to ascend the staircase back to the second floor, while the women also turned away to leave. Only traveling a few stairs upwards, he paused his return to his bedroom to leave the Sisters with one last remark, "I still don't trust you three, and I think getting Xia back is impossible. But…I'd make a deal with the devil if I could hold her one last time. Don't disappoint me if I come through for you."
"We promise you, Nightrunner," although he couldn't see her, he could hear the warmth behind Phoebe's voice, "you will see Xia again," the advent of those words made him turn around to look at the Sisters one last time, but by the time he swiveled his torso, with women were gone without a trace. Ramnarine smirked to himself before climbing the stairs back to his room. He had much to ponder before his guests arrived…
"Dammit!" the door budged slightly, but wouldn't release its lock as Macbeth threw his shoulder and his weight into it. Realizing quickly it wasn't enough, he turned to an aggravated Demona who seemed appalled by his actions, "Well, what are you waiting for?"
"For you to find some damn common sense!" she snapped, "We don't even know what's in there, and you want to go barging in?"
"If you were in trouble, wouldn't you'd appreciate-" Macbeth stopped in mid-sentence as suddenly realized something, "right, I forget who I'm talking to," much to her chagrin he returned to the futile ramming of the door.
"You're not going to stop, are you?" she said, rubbing her own right shoulder in pain in reaction to the damage his constant attempts were causing to his own, "Idiot…" in order to bring her own hurting to an end, she started to throw her left shoulder into the entrance as well. After three unified attempts, the sound of wood breaking behind the door accompanied their own stumble through it as it gave way.
As expected, their eyes met darkness as they entered, and with not much light coming from outside, the visual condition inside didn't change much. Macbeth could still spot the source of the moaning, however; the body of a woman, peppered in severe wounds and wearing a tattered, bloodstained, sky-blue sundress laid on a couch in the cabin's living room. As the Scotsman dared to venture closer, he could see that she was still alive, albeit barely. Her glazed-over eyes managed to look up and into his as he kneeled down next to her, to inspect her wounds.
"We heard you from outside, lass," he opened up dialogue first, mainly to spare her the pain of talking, "My name is Lennox, and this 'lovely human being' over here is Demona," he sarcastically introduced her, motioning over to the redhead with his chained hand. She remained standing, looking at the girl they found like children in a science class do during their first frog dissection, "Is there anything we can do to help?"
"For what…it's worth…thank you…" she spoke in a weary voice, her breathing heavy from the pain of her injuries. From what Macbeth observed, most of her wounds seemed to be third-degree burn marks, now caked over in blood and dead flesh. One even resembled a hand print on where her neck met her left shoulder. She was in worse shape than he first thought as both he and Demona realized that the girl didn't have too much time left in this world, "my name…is Jasmine."
"Well, Jasmine, you just rest," ever the chivalrous one, the Scotsman tried to comfort her in the best way he could, "I'll see what I can find around here to dress your wounds-"
"Please! You've got to listen!" Jasmine urgently managed to say in one breath, "I know…I don't have long to live. When you came in…I thought it was 'him'…coming to finish the job…"
"Him?" Macbeth naturally asked, "Who is this person? Did he do this to you?"
"Yes…" she said as her body racked with agony. In a show of mercy, Macbeth took her hand to give her something to squeeze and distract her from the pain, "he's a monster…there's an estate further north…I escaped from there a few days ago…that's where he lives…" Macbeth looked up at Demona with a glance that told her his hunch for breaking into the cabin was a good one, thanks to the info Jasmine had just dropped. Demona silent responded with the rolling of her eyes; she had a hard time feeling any compassion for Jasmine solely for the crime of being human. Whenever Demona came across the evils humanity brought upon each other, she couldn't help but laugh – thinking that if she didn't bring about their end, they'd eventually would. It took every ounce of her being not to snicker at the sight of Jasmine, "his name…is Nightrunner…"
"Nightrunner? That's a unique name," Macbeth remarked, "Why would he do something like this to you?"
"Because…he's obsessed…" Jasmine's voice weakened as what constitution she had left began to reveal its limit, "the woman he once loved is dead…he tried to use me as a replacement…made me his slave…the things he made me do…" her eyes began to overflow with tears as the nightmarish memories came rushing back. While Macbeth was completely engrossed about her recount, Demona was a little moved when revealed what hell she had been put through. Jasmine might nave been human, but they both were women, and that was something Demona could relate to.
"Now that I'm gone…" Jasmine continued, the gaps between breaths became longer as her grip on the Scotsman's hand, tighter, "It won't be long…before he finds another victim…who knows…how many there already have been?"
"That's enough, lass," pleaded Macbeth, seeing that she was fading fast, "you've told us plenty," he noticed that her grip become the tightest yet, as she looked intensely into his eyes. She had something important to say, and not much time for now she was running on empty.
"Lennox…grant me…one final request…" she said with anguish and anger saturating her words, "kill him…vengeance for all the…women he's done this too…save the ones who will be next..."
Her hold on his hand went limp suddenly and the light faded from her eyes. Jasmine finally let go of her pain, her sorrow, and her life. Placing her hand over her chest, the Scotsman closed her still opened eyes with the fingers that once held hers.
"Well, that's done," Demona snorted, "let's find some tools and take this contraption-"
"Demona…" Macbeth rose, still looking at Jasmine's still form, "we will bury this woman. And I will honor her final request."
"You old sap!" Demona said with disgust, "You've dragged me around enough today, thank you! On top of that you tried to kill me twice today and most importantly-" the next thing she knew, Demona found herself pinned against the wall and suspended two feet above ground by her neck. The Scotsman, in blind rage, had reached the limits of his tolerance for her, not caring if he crushed her throat or if the cuffs reacted first.
"Looks like third time's the charm," he managed to say despite the air being squeezed out of his own windpipe.
"Wait!" she screamed with what little air she had, "I'll do it!" and on those words, Macbeth released her, leaving both gasping for air yet again.
"I'll hold you to that…" the Scotsman didn't miss a beat as he was the first to recover. While he opened a tool closet nearby, Demona rubbed her throat, glaring at him with every ounce of hate she could muster. She wanted him dead, and was tempted to grab the nearest sharp object and have the satisfaction of doing so, regardless of the fact that her actions would end her own life.
The clearing outside the cabin lay behind it where the river flowed. There was a tree that stood out from the others that helped framed the clearing – a perfect grave marker for Jasmine, Macbeth decided. With shovels that he found in the closet, the pair managed to dig a hole five feet deep and in good time, taking only a little over an hour. Sadly, this wasn't the first time either had to do something like this and while digging it, the pair realized that they had done this once too many for anyone's lifetime. Even if they were immortal.
Burying another only reinforced that cruel fact.
Returning to the cabin, Macbeth wrapped Jasmine in a blanket he found in its bedroom, cradling her in his powerful arms as he took his time walking her to her final resting place. During the pallbearer's march, he couldn't help but notice how beautiful she was, imagining that in the happier moments of her life Jasmine was probably the very definition of gracefulness. He became solemn at the regretful thought of not meeting her under better circumstances.
Jumping into the plot, Macbeth laid her gently upon the earth, looking upon her face on last time before covering it over with the blanket that swaddled her. Topside, a subconscious rage started to overwhelm Demona as she reached for one of the shovels. The scarlet haired hellion had all she could take of Macbeth for one day, reaching the conclusion that if she had to go, it would be by her own terms, not his. As she began to raise it to swing it into the back of his neck, Macbeth's calm voice broke her concentration.
"Do it," his words couldn't have been more direct, yet again he didn't face her, "I deserve it and you have my blessing. I've done nothing but pursue your demise for an eternity. The least I can give for all of my failures is the honor of having you end it."
If he could see the look on her face, Macbeth would have found a deranged expression that would have unnerved even him. Still with the shovel's spade on the upswing, she bit her lower lip in anticipation as beads of sweat trickled from her forehead down her nose. Her breathing was tense and her body locked and poised for its final act. Surprise and disappointment washed over Lennox Macbeth as he heard the shovel drop to the ground above him.
"Coward…" he called her as he turned around, however he was caught off guard when he found her smiling, genuinely. She extended her hands to pull him out of the plot, and to his own amazement, he accepted.
"I never wanted something so badly in my life," she admitted after pulling him out, "but then I realized – we'd only be doing that 'Nightrunner' bastard a favor. I strike you down and all three of us fall into this hole accordingly – like dominoes. If and when he found us, he'd efficiently bury us and continue being a disgusting human, never knowing how close he was from being torn to shreds by you and me.
"I can't let that happen, Macbeth. I'll be barely doing it for her," she looked down upon Jasmine one final time, "the rest is to work out my frustrations on what I'd rather do to you, but can't. Before I snatch the life out of him, I'll claw my name into his back and savor every letter."
"Fair enough, lass," the Scotsman returned her smile, "fair enough."
Macbeth, in a final gesture of respect, took the thorn-less blue rose Demona had given him earlier and threw it upon her body before they began to return the earth they displaced. It only took half the time to fill in the grave than it did to unearth it in the first place, and to top it off, Demona removed her own rose from her wild mane of fiery red and placed it atop Jasmine's grave. After a moment of silence, the both returned to the blackness of the forest, returning to their journey with renewed vigor and - now - with a goal driving them forward.
Max Ramnarine reclined in his bed for the majority of the day. However he didn't sleep a wink, unable to do so with his mind still abuzz with the events of this morning. Fragments of their conversation still haunted him and his mind drifted back to when the Sisters were still in his company.
After asking them to reveal more about his approaching guests, the four migrated to the listening area of the music room. He seated himself on a floor pillow in front of an antique Go board, made from rich Kaya wood and sitting two feet off the floor. He didn't intend to play, but when Selene sat on the pillow across from him on the other side of the table, she grabbed one of the wooden bowls that rested atop it. The other two women sat on each side of her, magically materializing their own pillows underneath them as the blond revealed black stones inside her bowl.
"May we go first?" Selene asked, innocently enough. Max would have rather preferred to traditionally determine who went first, but he wasn't in the mood to argue. He grabbed his bowl of white stones and nodded his approval. The game started with the expected opening moves, each side placing stones in order to claim as much territory on the board as possible. It was a treat to see how the women delicately placed each stone on the field, each taking turns after the next and transporting the bowl magically into their laps on their corresponding turn.
"To start with, our 'proxies' are immortal," Luna began to explain after playing her move, "due to a spell they agreed to being subject to."
"And I guess you three were the ones that cursed them with that," Nightrunner surmised, planting a stone in his own grandiose manner, "how long have they been around?"
"Their 'bond' was forged nine-hundred and sixty-five years ago," Selene answered before playing her hand, "Demona is one-thousand forty-seven years old and Lennox Macbeth has just turned a millennium recently."
"M-Macbeth!" in shock, Ramnarine dropped the stone he had picked up with the fingers of his left hand. Conveniently, it dropped back into the bowl, "The one Shakespeare wrote about? The historical figure?"
"The very one," Phoebe patiently awaited his next move, and after he regained his composure he did so, allowing her to continue, "weren't anomalies like that your business at one time, Max?"
"Sorry…" he played again, with a sly smile, "wasn't my department. Anything else I should know?"
"Certainly," Max winced as he noticed Luna's next move was very aggressive. She made a play in a corner of the board where his stones had influence. However if she played it right, the snow-white locked maiden could drive a wedge in the middle of his area and cost him the game, "their bond also causes them to experience each others physical sensations. Pain or pleasure, each can experience what the other feels when in close range."
"Reminds me of something I saw in a cartoon once," Nightrunner remarked while playing in response to their attack. The Sisters had the initiative – or sente' as it was called in Go terms – and they weren't giving up the upper hand without a fight, "how far does the distance have to be for the bond not to have an effect?"
"In terms of mortal measurement, 50 feet at the least," Phoebe returned, playing a move that prevented Ramnarine from capturing all their invading black stones. Max did managed to close off their aspirations for dominating what he thought would have been his corner of the board, but he'd have to do significant damage to one of their areas if he were to have a shot at winning.
"Well, that means training them together is going to be tougher than I thought," he sighed, making a bold play on sector of the board that their influence was the weakest. Game-play accelerated as both sides played tactical assaults upon each other. Max had regained a foothold but as the entire battle of black and white stones started to wind down to the end-game (or yose'), he was unsure if he was ahead of the ladies in territory points.
"There is one important fact you should know about Demona & Macbeth," Selene insisted on telling him as they all started to tabulate the area won and lost on the board, "If one of them inflicts a mortal wound upon the other, their bond will be broken and they will both die. You must make sure this does not happen."
"Sure, but if anyone's dead here…it's me…" Max yielded defeat to the trio, "even with a 5-and-a-half point bonus for starting out with white, I still lose by half a point. Kampai, gang," he relayed with a modest smile.
As the evening approached, Ramnarine took his relentless pondering to the shower, spending longer in there than he originally planned. The sound of the rushing water lulled him into a trance of memories long past. Before he knew it, the water had turned cold from him being in there for so long, but he didn't care. Long showers were a regular occurrence to Ramnarine, and if he was contemplating something of importance he'd remain in there, lost in thought until the stream turned ice cold.
He wrapped his long and dripping locks in a soft dark blue towel and used an identical one to drape his waist while he stood at the entrance to his walk-in closet. An assortment of shirts, pants, shoes, suits, uniforms, and even strange outfits hung along both sides of the 10-meter long wardrobe corridor, but his tastes today were simple as he made his way down the aisle. Emerging from the closet with a black suit jacket, matching slacks, and contrasting white dress shirt, he traversed to a nearby dresser and threw on a black t-shirt and boxers from its contents. The black t-shirt sported a gold emblem above the right breast in the angular shape of a hawk's head while running across it in red letters was the word "Titans". Something about the logo was menacing in a way, despite its stylish design. Max sighed a little when seeing the symbol before putting it on, then covering it up completely with his white dress shirt. Leaving the top buttons of the dress shirt undone, the rest of his outfit was on before he knew it, and after slipping into a pair of well polished dress shoes, he exited his room to descend the staircase again.
Their shadows trailed behind them as they stood directly in front of the open gate of the mansions fence. The sun was in a position to set soon and the thought of that eventuality brought a smile to Demona's lips as she was ready to step through the gate's threshold. The only thing keeping her back was Macbeth, who had paused for some reason.
"Are we going to do this not?" she asked, slightly annoyed at his hesitance, "Don't tell me that you're getting cold feet?"
"I can't help but feel we're stepping into a situation where we'll be at a distinct disadvantage, lass. If 'Nightrunner' is here, not only will be fighting him in his domain, but still chained together as well," the Scotsman observed, "none of the tools in the cabin could put a dent in these things. From the looks of it, they're not only enchanted to prevent us from destroying each other, but to take a beating also."
"Not to worry, old man," the redhead smirked, "not to far from now, the ties that bind us will no longer be a problem. I'll see to it myself," she said enigmatically while taking the first step, "now, let's move." Macbeth followed after her with wary eyes observing his surroundings.
The pair entered the flower-filled courtyard of Ramnarine Manor, making their way to ornate fountain that rested at the eye of the cobblestone circle at the garden center. Macbeth couldn't help but admire the surroundings while Demona's eyes were focused on the front doors of the manor – one of which was slightly opened.
"This is looking more and more like a setup by the second," Demona couldn't help announcing, "it's a big house, however. Where do you think we'll find him inside?"
"It's anyone's guess. Seems a shame that we can't split up to cover-" Macbeth paused in mid-sentence as something caught his ears, "Music? Either someone is playing a record-"
"No…it's a piano," her hearing happened to be sharper than the average human's, "and it's being played by someone - not a playback at all," she coaxed him to run up to the front door with her, where they waited a second before pushing open the entrance all of the way to reveal what awaited them inside.
Making their way into a well-lit interior, Macbeth and Demona carefully stepped into the grand foyer where Ramnarine and the Weird Sisters had stood hours earlier; discussing the fates of the very two people that had finally arrived. Right before them sat the long staircase that led to the second floor and the bedrooms that filled it. However, Demona's attention was directed to a hallway around and behind the staircase, leading Macbeth into the unknown. The only thing they knew was that the source of music emanated from whatever was at hall's end, a mystery neither could wait to solve as they strode to the open doorway…
His fingers played over the 88 keys as if they had a mind of their own. It didn't require much thought for Nightrunner to play the piano as well as he did, after all, he had been a veteran of the instrument for a long time. Longer than he wished he could remember. Despite having his back to them, he could sense that his company had arrived, but continued to play until he finished the bittersweet tune his heart belted out. He quickly realized that his guests had enough manners to permit him to do so and deep down he was grateful. Ramnarine fought hard to resist, but his eyes finally surrendered, drifting upwards to the portrait of Xia, triggering his mind to be lost in a whirlpool of memories. He hated himself for being such a prisoner of his tragic past, but he surrendered himself to that pathetic state long before Demona, Macbeth, or even the Weird Sisters arrived.
"That girl…" Macbeth found himself lost in Xia's portrait as he and Demona stood in the music room doorway, "she's wearing the same dress."
"What?" Demona asked, giving the picture a glance, then revealing a perturbed expression on her face as her impatience snowballed, "What does that have to do anything? Let's find out if that human is Nightrunner and get this thing started."
"It has to do with Jasmine," Macbeth retorted, "she said that Nightrunner was trying to compensate for the loss of his beloved with her and other women. The woman in that painting might be the original article."
"It's nice that you're so sentimental," she rolled her eyes, an act that came to her like second-nature, "but it's time to put on your game-face. To start losing your nerve right before show time-"
"You're wrong," he countered, "if that person ahead of us is Nightrunner, I'd like to grant him last act of finishing his song, that's all. Besides…I haven't heard 'Good Morning Heartache' in ages, and not nearly as well as he's playing it."
"Right…" Demona grumbled, "Fair enough… but he's got five minutes."
"It won't be nearly that long," the Scotsman smiled, "he's almost done."
Exactly 44 seconds later, Ramnarine's fingers played the finale of "Good Morning Heartache", a soulful, yet bluesy melody that captured the state his heart had been in for what felt like forever. However, he forced his melancholy feelings aside as he rose from the bench and turned to face his guests with a half-hearted smile. He found them already walking up to both him and the piano and took a second to look them over as he advanced them as cautiously as they did. Macbeth appeared as dignified as he expected the former King of Scotland to look, despite being dirty from his quest to Ramnarine's home. There was a roguish charm to his eyes that Max could see as well; the spark of confidence that one would find in the leader of a nation.
What Ramnarine didn't expect was to find such a beautiful and dangerous-looking woman in his company. He fought hard to remember her name from his conversation with the Sisters, taken aback by how little she wore, her wild mop of scarlet, and the attitude her poise exuded. He knew she was a firebrand the second he laid eyes on her, and probably the cause of a lot of the problems between the two. If there was anyone that would be hard to tame, it would be her.
"Good evening and welcome to my home," he broke the silence once he was in reach of a handshake, "my name is Richter Ramnarine. But please, call me 'Max'."
"Pleased to meet you, sir" Macbeth was quite relieved that the pleasant youth wasn't 'Nightrunner', or at least he didn't call himself that, "I'm-"
"I don't get it," Demona interrupted, "Why call you 'Max', when your name is-"
"'Richter'?" Ramnarine's nervous smile relaxed a bit as he became more comfortable with the pair, "Because my middle name is 'Maximillian'. I'm not really too fond of my name so I'm just happy there's a part of it I feel fine using," he joked but neither laughed. He knew it would be a tough crowd from the start, however, and cleared his throat, carrying on, "I guess its no surprise, but I've been expecting you."
"Really," Macbeth's intuition told him to be on guard, and his mental defenses triggered into action. Demona's had been in play from the minute they entered the courtyard, "and who would have informed you that we were coming."
"Come on now, I thought you two would have- oh…" Max suddenly noticed something. The golden chain and cuffs bonding them together caught his eye and then something the Sisters had told him came back to his memory, "that's right! They did mention that thing…"
"You mean this?" Demona caught part of the long chain in her hand, "Who mentioned it?"
"The Weird Sisters, of course," Ramnarine stated, "they did tell you about me and to come here right?"
"Not at all, lad," countered Macbeth, "we awoke at the mountain on the other side of the valley this morning, having no idea where we were or why we were here. I believe you have the answers we've been seeking, however."
"Are you in league with those witches?" Demona accused him, angrily grabbing the lapel of his jacked with her free hand, "Where are they?"
"Just slow down a second, lady," Max gently grabbed her wrist, pressing a point on it that caused her to immediately release her grip. It didn't even hurt her, she noticed, but the cavalier way he coerced her hand amazed and shocked her at the same time leaving her speechless, "'Demona', isn't it?" he remembered her name at last, much to her continuing surprise, "I haven't played into their manifesto yet, but I am considering an offer that they presented me this morning."
"And what would that be?" Macbeth asked, all too intrigued despite the change in his demeanor from hospitable to suspicious. Max recognized that the mere mention of the Sisters had upset them a great deal, and he immeadiately regretted speaking their name. However, what was done was done and he ventured on, this time much more meticulous with the words he chose.
"Well, 'your highness'," Max was sincere when he referred to Macbeth as that, but he didn't receive the honorable title as well as Ramnarine hoped, "they requested that I train you to not only become better warriors but to also put aside whatever animosity you tow have for each other so you can work together. I'm not sure what the beef is between you to is, but I told them what their hoping for is easier said than done."
"You don't know the half, boy," Demona smirked, "our history goes back farther than you'd believe – or did they tell you that too."
"Just a little, but watch who you're calling 'boy'," Max returned, his demeanor changing to a much less accommodating one, "a brother might take that the wrong way," he lightened up a bit, however when his focus returned to the chain between them, "now, I was told that I had the ability to break that thing. That is…if you let me," Ramnarine smiled faintly.
"You'd only hurt yourself, lad," Macbeth advised, "whatever witchcraft curses these bonds makes them indestructible."
"Then my attempt will at least be entertaining," Ramnarine remarked taking the chain in his right hand, "would you two stretch pull this as hard as you can on both your ends? I'm going to try and break it," he raised left hand and positioned himself to chop the chain once they had it up.
"Here?" Macbeth said with a confused look, "You'll need more than just your hand to do any damage to this."
"No, let him," Demona said with a malicious grin while pulling on her side. Macbeth did likewise tightening the chain as Ramnarine asked, "if this fool can't listen to reason, this will be entertaining just like he said. When he hurts himself, that is."
"Ye o' little faith, 'Scarlet'," Max gave her a nickname that she didn't particularly care for. Her disdain made his smile broaden as he raised his hand further upwards and back, "now brace yourselves. Don't want to see…" around his hand exploded a neon blue flame that engulfed it, "…you…" Demona and Macbeth were stunned to witness the phenomenon, but before they could make a move in reaction, "…FALL!" Ramnarine threw his hand into the chain, shattering it. Macbeth held his ground, but Demona still amazed by what just happened stumbled backwards, her next destination being the marble floor below her tripping feet.
"See…told you 'Scarlet'," she was dumbfounded to find herself caught by someone behind her. Demona was even more shocked to find that it was Ramnarine. As she regained her balance and threw herself back to Macbeth's side, the pair both stood in awe of the feats he had pulled in less than a second. It was enough to destroy the chain, but to transport himself behind Demona was a whole new mystery for them to wrap their already mystified minds around.
"What…are…you?" she asked as she slowly regained her composure, finding the courage to step forward placing her between Max and Macbeth.
"That's…a long story…" Max said, with a heavy heart. He knew he had shown them too much too fast and hoped that after startling them, his actions wouldn't scare them away, "look, why don't we go over there-" he motioned over to the rose-bordered rest area a few steps away where he played Go with the Sisters earlier, "-have a seat, and we can start this all over. From the top, if that's what you guys want."
"First, one thing," Macbeth interjected, "we came here looking for someone. Maybe you know him."
"Ooookay," Max was taken aback by the question, being the only man to reside there. Regardless, his curiousity encouraged him to play along with the Scotsman's line of questioning, along with the fact that he wanted to ease tensions by being as helpful as he could, "who can I help you find?"
"Were looking for a man named 'Nightrunner'," Macbeth continued and the mention of his nickname again caused a shrill wind to run up Ramnarine's spine, "we have a grievance we would like to 'discuss' with him. Do you know where we can find-"
"How…how in the hell do you know that name?" what was left of Max's diplomatic attitude disintergrated into severe annoyance as Macbeth observed his change in demeanor. They all could tell that the pleasantries had ended and what was to come next would be all but civil.
"We ran into a victim of his along the way," Demona could see the sun setting from a window behind Ramnarine along the back wall of the music room where his assortment of instruments was displayed. The excitement from the sight was hard for her to contain, "she told us about the inhuman things that this 'Nightrunner' did to her before she died-"
"Died?" Ramnarine asked in a mixture of horror and subdued fury.
"It's apparent that you know him, Mr. Ramnarine," Macbeth stepped to Demona's side, "is it safe to assume that you know where he is also?"
"Yeah…I do…" Max laughed at the awkwardness of his current situation, feeling like all three were the subject of someone's manipulation. With reckless abandon and reaching defeat in trying to salvage the situation, he revealed the truth to them, "you won't have to go far to find him, either. I am 'Nightrunner'."
"I knew it…" Demona began to laugh as Macbeth fumed. The sun was almost out of sight.
"We've come to claim revenge for the atrocities you committed," Macbeth revealed, "for Jasmine and all the other women you've killed," he pointed to Xia's picture above and behind Ramnarine, which threw him back into a world of despair instantly. Macbeth, ever the detective, surmised that the woman in the portrait held a special significance to Nightrunner. But he could never imagine how much.
"I have no idea who 'Jasmine' is, but in Xia's case…you're right," Max admitted in emotionless monotone, his entire being drained from the conversation, "it is my fault that she's dead."
"Well then…" Macbeth was about to conclude, "you will be joining her soo-" suddenly, the Scotsman felt a sensation that rocked his entire frame. An immense pain that felt like his body was on fire from within as he fell to the floor uncontrollably. He could see that Demona was suffering from it too, but then soon realized that it was because of her that he was suffering also. She remained standing despite the throws of agony as Macbeth fought to keep his eyes open to witness what he realized was happening. Max Ramnarine, on the other hand, had no idea what to make of what was going on.
"…the hell?" Nightrunner managed to say as he watched the redhead's skin tone change from Caucasian to the alien color of aquamarine. In a reaction of horror, he backed into the keys of the piano as she hunched over to crouch and two growths rose from the shoulder blades from her back. Ramnarine didn't take long to decipher that they were wings, and from the claws that her hands and feet where transforming into, her further deduced that she was changing into- "A gargoyle?"
As abruptly as the torture had started, it had just as quickly released Macbeth's body from its punishment as Demona rose to her feet, staring down an astonished Ramnarine. The Scotsman stood up shortly afterwards, still a little groggy about what he had just been put through and at the same time, he finally understood why when he woke up that morning why he felt as out of sorts as he did. There was something about seeing Demona's true form that shook Ramnarine to his core. Déjà vu swept him into a memory long forgotten, and it was suddenly clear why her standing before him was so familiar.
"I just want to tell you that I'm not doing this for the sake of a human's vengeance," Demona started, intimidating Ramnarine a little, "I'm going to render you lifeless for my satisfaction alone," she said exposing the claws of her hands towards Ramnarine, "Nightrunner…" the scarlet haired gargoyle reared back, ready to pounce, "your time ends now!" Macbeth watched in horror as Demona became a blur, launching to shred the young man they had come to execute.
Next Chapter - "The Shadow and the Nightmare"