ANGELS FALL

"Beware that when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster… for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." — Friedrich Nietzsche

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Title: Angels Fall

Author: AliceEnchanted

Summary: In a world where Espers were nothing but a source of underground entertainment, Misaka Mikoto rises among the ranks to break the chains binding her. If there was nothing waiting for her when she finally comes outside, what would she do? How far was she willing to go to save her friends?

Rating: FICTION M FOR CRIME, VIOLENCE, GORE, AND LANGUAGE. IT ALSO CONTAINS IMPLIED RAPE, SELF-HARM, ABUSE, AND DRUGS.

Pairings: None as of the moment, but I'll probably think of something along the story. It will probably be a Touma/Mikoto pairing (because they're Canon), but I'm open for suggestions. I will post a poll on my profile for possible pairings.

Author's Notes: I'm going to say this now: IF YOU'RE NOT A FAN OF, OR IF VIOLENCE, GORE, AND/OR PROFANITIES MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, THEN SCRAM! DON'T READ THIS STORY BECAUSE YOU WILL BE READING A LOT OF THOSE.

Ahem, anyway — and no. This story has been bugging me since I heard Angels Fall by Breaking Benjamin (it's a good song, by the way) so I just have to write it. As of the moment, there will be 30 chapters on this story including both Prologue and Epilogue. It's still a work in progress and updates will probably be once or twice a month, whichever my asthma and muscle spasms will allow. Lol.

PROLOGUE

Cross your heart and say you've never given up

That you carried on when every door was shut

That you live, you live with no regret

— Jacquie, Broken Ones

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TRIGGER WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC SCENES LIKE VIOLENCE & GORE. THIS ALSO CONTAINS IMPLIED RAPE, IMPLIED PARRICIDE, DRUGS, & STRONG LANGUAGE.

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The underground district of Academy City was never a welcoming sight; dark walls littered with angry graffiti, tainted with dried blood no amount of paint could cover, and beaten by the countless storms the place has seen. It still stank of smoke and stale cigarette ashes that now had hardened and piled against the corners of the dark tunnels. The rotting woods that were probably used to block the entryways and something that served as weapon before lain haphazardly around, some leaning against the dark walls, and some broken into splinters that scattered around the cold floors among glinting pieces of shattered glass. The most disturbing sight one would most likely to stumble upon, however, were the decaying matters that were as unrecognizable as the first time they flew from the force that blew them to pieces and stayed on their same spot.

The cobwebs and mosses did not help to hide them.

The bodies were never disposed of, or at least never properly buried, but left as a reminder that the place was not where one would find a safe haven. Any person who was unfortunate enough to find the place would have hard time trying to scrub the offending smell off their body or clothing, off their memories. Still, at some point, they were luckier than those who tried washing the blood off their hands and remained haunted by the faces of those they killed. They look as sickening as the first day they had been there — some of the bones still horribly reeked of death, as if the smell had clung on every part and permeated through the brittle bones, and some which were hanging up from the dingy ceilings, missing a limb or two or even a half part.

During rainy days and winter season, the smell was stronger and would seem to travel through the winding tunnels. While in the summer, it would feel like bathing in both sweat and blood and the stench would remain in the hands, hair, and clothes. In those summer nights, the victor would come out and go home smelling as if they just swam in a sea of blood and entrails. In winter, the participants would take spare clothes, gloves, and boots that would conceal the bloods and prevent it from staining the white ground.

Many knew of the district's existence, and then there were some directly affiliated with the on goings of the place, but only a few would dare venture among the alleys that led to them. The undergrounds, or as the people of the place call it — The Labyrinth, was where one would go if they were thirsty for entertainment. The place was never for the feeble. It was never as inviting as the schools' posters that proudly sported their respective slogans, and anyone foolish enough to take even a peek would be wishing for death. The place was only lavish with the stink of death, decorated with piercing eyes and hungry smiles of the predators lying in wait for their prey to make a wrong move.

Within the twisting tunnels, it was very easy to get lost and once one entered it, there was no going back; you either fight or die not trying. The weak always falls prey to the strong, and in this hell, the weak ones always end up bathing in their own blood. It was not where one would even dare to make up with their friends, nor a good spot for some reunion. It was not, nor had it ever been in the first place, somewhere one would find a safe haven. Not even for those who were all too familiar with the battles that took place here. Rather, it was some place where one would find an outlet of their anger or where they quench their thirst for blood. The way the dead bodies, now laying in a heap of broken bones, smelled foul when it rains; or how the dried blood in the walls and even in the floor seemed to look brighter in the dark; or how, even in the hottest summer days, the wind was always cold down there.

Growing up familiar with how blood feels warm on her hand and knowing how to tear through one's chest as easily as breathing was the past that led her to where she was standing today. However, it was the one thing she would never be proud about herself. There was nothing about her that warranted for pride. Feared, untouchable, and hated were the words that branded her, and she learned that there was nothing she could do to change all that she had done in the past. Dying would not bring back the lives she had stolen, nor mend the bonds she tore apart. It was the burden people like her would carry forever; and no regrets would amount to save them from their sins.

Misaka Mikoto has seen it all. She has lived it all.

Yet, she was still far from the end of this tunnel, or maybe she was never meant to see the light, like anyone else that was forced into this path. She was a sinner; from the moment she was thrown in the arena until she stepped out victorious. She was a fighter, from the moment she first raised her hands to defend herself until she made her first blood. She was a monster, and monsters like her did not deserve a life worth living. It was her mantra and despite how cruel it sounded against her own ears, it was what pushed her to aim for a better future for herself, for every Esper who were deprived of freedom.

Freedom to live. To love. To be happy.

Who were they, even? A bunch of kids whose fates were sealed the day they first shown promise? A flicker, a spark, a whisper, hush, breath, a lull of power was all it took to change their lives forever. Was it a sin? Was it selfishness? Was it greed? When was it wrong to possess a power they could have used to fight for what was right?

What were their names? The ones they were given upon birth? Or the moniker bestowed upon them on the battlefield? When were they forced to live in the oppressing anonymity of a survival which they do not even want to fight for?

She was the Railgun.

It was funny how her life never had the spark her nickname proudly held.

Misaka Mikoto was four when her life took an awry turn.

She still remembered how it all started for her. She still can feel his touch even in her dreams — nightmares — the way her skin burned with every slash of knife; the sting of the scratches and bruises he left on every part of her body; or how the ghost of his harsh and heavy handprints still made her feel filthy even after all these years. During the nights of restlessness, his eyes would peer at her, piercing through the darkness that wrapped around her — a glowing, eerie golden orbs. She could still feel the ghost of his touches, the hands groping every inch of her body, and the fingers that pulled harshly on her hair. She had lost count of the nights that she could sleep peacefully, or rather, she could no longer remember the last time when she slept with no fear of the terrors that walked alongside her in her dreams.

Misaka Mikoto was five when her life went downhill.

It started so early in her childhood that she was forced to carry the burden while she was growing up, to fix the broken pieces of her life that was not even whole in the first place. She wondered, hoped for answers, if there was something she had done that angered or insulted the Fates that they gave her a life not even the one with most sins would want and deserve to live. It resulted to her, from the moment the man with cold eyes and cruel grin took her away from her home, questioning why her mother did not pick up the courage to fight for her. She cried her heart out, wiggled and punched and bit wildly, out of the man's arms in hopes that he would let her go and she could hide behind her mother. That was what she expected, but her mother just watched with a blank face and emptier eyes.

She was six when she lost all hope of her very being after she was thrown into a den of hungry monsters — people like her, who killed just to survive and kill, and kill, and kill — and expected to fend for her own. The only thing she was taught was to win.

Then she knew that moment, that even if she escaped from the hands that pulled her into the depths of hell, that there will be no home waiting for her. Their only salvation was to cover their hands in blood, fill their souls with darkness, and swam in them until they could no longer escape their demons, then drown.

His name was Takahashi Enyo, a pitiful business man who fell into the wrong crowd and drowned in debts after his company suspiciously went bankrupt.

He was the first person she killed, then her mother followed.

When Kihara asked her what it felt to kill the woman who took care of her for five years, her answer was she did not even regret it, but what surprised him was her next words:

"She was not my mother."

The sound of deafening cheers and yells bounced against the fusty walls of the arena as a body fell on the dirty floor. The smell of blood immediately permeated through the dark atmosphere, pooling beneath the dead body, staining the boots of the victor and spilling down the battle ring. The crimson liquid looked oddly bright against the dull ground, creeping with a dark sheen under the dim fluorescent lamp overhead.

She could feel his eyes on her back, and even without looking, she knew exactly who it was. She suppressed the urged to sneer; instead, she kicked the corpse on its stomach, sending it tumbling down with a squelch and wet thud, its intestines and other organs flying in the air. The stench of burnt and singed entrails was even stronger now that they were displayed for everyone to see, but she paid no mind to the spectators' reactions. A severed piece of what used to be a liver slipped down her hair, while some unrecognizable blown pieces of guts clung all over her clothes. Her eyes remained on the body's wide-open and dull ones, which seemed to be the only things left on its smashed head and face, lolling out of their sockets and swinging from the force of her kick. She has always wondered how and when exactly the light in them dims and leaves, or what they see before they lose all of their colors. She would never know, she decided, because she was not weak.

The expressions, the final looks on the faces of the people she has killed has always pleasured her, even the goriest ones have never managed to bring her discomfort. She thrived on winning, on making her opponents bleed, on opening and cutting their bodies in halves. She has bathed in blood even at a young age, just to survive, to see the next sunrise, to fight again and again and again. That was what the winners do, that was what the strong do: to look their enemies in the eyes and watch as the light leave them.

"Tch." She gingerly touched her chin, remembering how her opponent had landed a punch on her before being blown to pieces. Serves the bitch right. She stared at the carcass for a few more moments, a crazed smile pulling on her lips as she admired her work. A soft and slow hum slipped out from her grinning lips, lost among the wild roar of the crowd. She had grown used to it that it did not bother her anymore than it did before, when she first took out a life, when she first bathed in blood.

Her footsteps were quiet as she began to walk down the stage, back ramrod straight, and head held high. Kihara Gensei could go fuck himself; she was not spilling anymore blood tonight for his greedy whims. She was already exhausted after spending a time dealing with the drug traffickers near the outskirts of District 19, and damn did they give her a hard time; and that even if she still has an ounce of strength or patience left, she would not waste it to talk to the greedy scientist. He has been more pain in the back lately, and facing him right now might make her snap and she did not want that to happen. Last time she accidentally destroyed the corridors, he made her clean and renovate them herself.

She was not even near to the doors when he called her name, and she shoved down the urge to scream in favor of throwing a glare to the scientist over her shoulders, the eerie glow of her eyes under the dim lights making him actually pause and stop on his tracks. She felt satisfaction stir somewhere inside her, at least the old man still knew his place. She guessed it was not necessary anymore to remind him where he stood.

"You did a good job," he praised, grinning in a way that would have probably terrified her if she was someone as helpless and weak as the Esper she has just killed. She felt herself glower after hearing his words, an automatic reflex whenever he congratulated her for winning as if it was his obligation, as if he was hoping for her to fail. She did not want it, did not ask for his approval; she would not even accept them even if death comes for her.

However, she grew up under his care that she learned to read his mood with how he spoke. She could tell that it was one of those nights when he would ask her to do his dirty works for him and starve her if she failed, but they were better than having to stand in the middle of the pitch, bathing in blood and entrails and soot and dirt. She felt filthy already, and she would rather prefer his nagging than to spill more blood on her arms and futilely wash them off.

"What do you want?" she spat out, eyes flashing dangerously behind the curtain of fringe that fell to her cheeks. "I don't have any patience with your bullshit tonight, Kihara. So, if you have something else to say, say it."

The man let out a chuckle, the sound a little colder than she had ever heard from him before. She watched, mouth slightly agape and eyes narrowed incredulously. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently as he just continued laughing as if there was something he found funny in her question. "Spit it out, old man!"

The bright spark from the girl's fingertips immediately silenced him, and he looked at her straight in the eyes. "Know your place, little girl," he hissed, only to get a challenging smirk in response. They continued glaring at each other, one with eyes filled with contempt, and the other with amusement. Within the walls of the dimly lit hallways, the excited murmurs and suppressed thrill of the arena have been muffled, but the silence only intensified the growing tension between the scientist and the girl.

She knew more than anyone else present in this room, in this whole building, and probably even the whole Academy City, that Gensei's threats were often empty. He was an old coward who liked using children for his own entertainment, the weak for his own inadequacy, and the helpless for his own greed. There was nothing about him that might demand respect, not even his intelligence nor his accomplishments, which she actually found ridiculous.

"Or else what? If I remember correctly, you never had the guts to challenge me, Ki—ha—ra," she mocked, lips stretching to an empty grin, bits of blood and entrails sliding down her cheeks as she tilted her head to the side to look at him haughtily. "You cannot hurt me, because I'm all that was left of you. Unless…" she let her words hung in the thick air as she laughed coldly, throwing head back and clutching her sides, staining her already filthy shirt with more blood. The echo of her laugh rang on his ears, making him shiver under the weight of her words, and he had every right to be. She was born a weapon, the perfect killing machine, and he would be a fool if he let any harm come to her.

Kihara watched the scene with frenzied look on his face, his shaking hands balled to fists and fingers digging to the skin of his palms. How dare she?!

"You will have nothing left if you dispose me, Kihara, and you'll regret it." With that, she spun on her heels and stalked off, purposely making her steps loud as if to ridicule him. She could care less about his retribution, he has nothing to hold against her unless he wanted to find himself in the same position as her victims. She waved a hand without looking if he was still watching her walk away, eyes alit with sadistic glee. "Later, sensei."

"You cannot walk away from me forever, child." He hissed, turning on his heels to walk back inside the arena. He would let it pass for tonight, he has a lot of things left to do, anyway.

On his way back, he stopped shortly to think about his next moves. She has surely grown disobedient, he has to do something about it even if it meant losing his most precious weapon. He just needed something, that one thing that will help him control her again. She must trust him again, put her faith on him, until they all slip completely out of his hands.

He needed her for his plans to work

As he took his previous seat, the next contenders came up on the ring, one was a shaking boy with messy black hair and terrified brown eyes, who Kihara remembered was a recent addition to his… collections; and the other, a teenage boy with messy white hair and piercing red eyes.

Amongst the cacophony of feverish cheers and cries of the crowd, Kihara found himself letting out a wild laugh.

9 years earlier…

A young girl with chestnut brown hair and big eyes the same color as her locks stood in the middle of a pearly, white room. Inside the room above her, stood Kihara Gensei, peering below the glass windows, and observing her. She was shaking slightly from the cold, more from nervousness, and not even the stuffed, green Gekota she held in her arms helped to ease her nerves. It was not long after she came here, from what the others called the Labyrinth, that they started experimenting on her abilities. She did not understand back then, why the man with wrinkly face and malicious grin wanted to use her powers, and what good will it do to her if they will gain something from it.

All she knew was, after they took her away from her mother, that she was important, that she possessed something they badly needed, or at least that was what they told her when they injected a bright liquid into her arm. As she continued to stand there with growing impatience and nagging curiosity, she felt exposed — bare, naked — under the bright lights. She knew they were watching her, so, even with the discomfort in the pit of her stomach, and the prickly fabric of the laboratory coat they gave her earlier, she remained unmoving, breathing, waiting.

Kihara's eyes pierced on her skin even past the thick windows that separated the rooms, and under the glare of the lightings, his eyes felt — more than they looked — like smoldering charcoals with pitch-black depths.

She did not know how long she stood there before the heavy doors opened, but instead of finally dismissing her, they put down a newly sharpened and a heavy-looking katana next to her feet, forcefully pried the Gekota from her hands, and left immediately after telling her that she would be fine. She stared incredulously at their retreating backs, unable to do anything, but to openly gape at their blatant refusal to give her answers.

"Hello, Mikoto-chan," the speaker buzzed, and it did not take her for long to find the source of the voice. "Today, we will test your will to live and how you would act when presented with a ghost of your past. Live or die, child. Your life is in your own hands." Then without so much of a warning, a man was roughly pushed inside the room, and her eyes grew wide with wild anger upon recognizing the bruised and battered body. Even in his beaten state, the worn-out shoes on his feet, and the blood staining his torn clothes, Mikoto would always know that face.

"Takahashi Enyo."

The name was whispered loudly with such spite that even from the pain he was already suffering, the man still was able to summon the energy left to look at her with fear in his eyes. She could not hold back the urge to sneer, to glare at very same eyes that looked at her like a predator would do to his prey two years ago.

Now, the tables have turned, and she would give him death three times worse that how he made her suffer.

Live or die, child.

Bloodshed painted the previously clean walls. She did not know when she picked up the knife, or when her instincts took over, but she started to move.

He met her halfway, gripping her wrists tightly to pry the knife off her hold, and prompting her to scream. It made her feel filthy, the way he seized them — she did not like it, she did not want him touching he again. So, she kicked him on the shin and pulled her hands out of his grasp, slashing his arm in the process. She honestly found it satisfying: the way it started to bled and the first drop of blood on the pristine floor, and she could not stop. Mikoto took advantage of his momentary surprise and distraction, then plunged ahead.

She stabbed, and cut, and slashed his torso, gauged his eyes out until he screamed and begged for mercy from the hands of the very same person he denied it. She was not listening, or at least she was slightly aware of what her instincts were subconsciously doing, while she retreated to the corners of her mind, convincing herself that she was doing the right thing. She was terrified, but her hands and body would not stop moving. She stabbed his chest, pushing the whole length of the blade past his bones and pulling it down to his abdomen, hard. His agonized screams were music to her ears, and the lingering feeling and image of the sword easily slicing his ribcage like his bones were made from tender meat was the most beautiful sight she has seen.

She did not even realize that she has started to smile wickedly, too immersed with the warmth of the blood in her hands, and the slick and unrecognizable pieces of his pulverized lungs clinging on her face and clothes. In the middle of cutting and crushing his body to pieces, her mind grudgingly went back to the night a few months after her fourth birthday, and her movements grew rougher, more desperate, more furious. Memories of his dirty hands, of his leering and laughing face, his rocking body above her, and his mocking eyes still burned in the back of her mind.

Tears started to spill down her cheeks as she brutally drove the blade through his skull, blood flying in the air and flooding her senses. She fell as sobs wracked her body, tucking herself in a defensive position and surveying the carnage before crying once again.

She did not even notice when Kihara came to the room, picked her up with surprising gentleness, and asked one of the female scientists to draw a bath for her.

Three days after her first slaughter, she paid her mother a visit, and left the old apartment with a bin bag slung over her shoulders, making sure to not leave even a drop of blood from its severed contents. She felt no remorse, not even after she disposed off the sack, not even after she went home with the scientist and fought and killed five others in The Labyrinth after that. District 19 was her home now, and as long as she lives, The Labyrinth was hers.

A fortnight later, the Anti-Skill found the severed head of Misaka Misuzu inside a trash bag, floating in one of the dams of District 21.

Her eyes and tongue were missing.