Prologue: Baptism In Blood
Rated M for violence (gore), profanity (only slurs will be censored), & lemons (probably will take a long time to see this happen :') ).
(Gregory & Damien / Christophe) :p
errors and sloppy writing might be noticeable. my apologies. too lazy to edit and reread :') and also bad french impersonation ':D
(some random switches from 3rd to 1st pov to let you know in advance to not make it to confusing)
this is NOT going to be a happy giddy fluffy fanfic. this is straight up a dark fic with romance on the side (just wanna write angsty romance lol). also just wanted to give it a shot (gory fic).
inspired by cttg (Consequences to the Grave (amazing book)) slightly inspired from togainu no chi ifykyk :
gonna try to make the characters not so ooc and to hopefully set them in a new light, where everyone can enjoy it. i'll try not to rush this, but i dont even know where im going to be taking this, but i do have an idea.
thanks for reading, if you do end up reading it. and sorry for all the a/n. (more at the end :') )
—
Christophe has only died once in his life.
And he swears over the cocksucking f*ggot of a God that exists, he does not want to experience death again. If he does, he will not hold back this time.
That was the last lie he allowed himself to believe.
. . .
Death, in all its brutal simplicity, had never scared him. It was the silence that came afterward—the hollow emptiness that stretched further- longer than the pain, longer than the torment. That was what made him hate it and to hopefully yet helplessly experience it again (not).
For a while after he had perished and fought to the skies about confronting God (yet expecting hell), there was no fire, no clouds, no eternal judgement waiting for him. Just a black coldness. For him, that was the worst hell. Until the brimstone and ash swirled around him, burning and trapping his eyes in a daze. And the engulfing smell of rotten meat undertoning his line of scent came in.
Christophe lightly flicked his ignited cigarette that rested in his mouth. Watching as a few bright embers of the flame sparked then died into ash and falling into the fallen debris of the long-stretched hallway laid out before him in a demolished old church.
He kicks his foot, grumbling on the way, his cigarette dangling on the edge of his lip, Gregory insisted this would be an easy. "Quick job. Get een, get out. Same as always." The brunette had mumbled under his breath, mimicking the stupid fucking British f*g.
But Christophe knew better than to trust anything Gregory said. That man carried more secrets than his hair not spiralling out of control. And Gregory always used gel to streak his hair back, as slick as it could be so no strand could be seen.
This time, the mission he had accepted wasn't the usual target who was a random scumbag dealer or a small-time crook. No, the man Christophe was after tonight had deep ties to the church—a high-ranking cardinal involved in trafficking, whose fingers were dirty with the blood of the innocent. He was the kind of man who smiled in the daylight but worshipped sin in the dark. The kind of man who knew how to beg for his life when the time came.
But Christophe was not the type of man to show mercy especially for those who worshipped what they called "God". He never did, even as the air tasted bitter, like ash, his mind was still the same, and his heart was still the same. Dull. Broken. Lost.
There was one thing that put the brunette on edge. It wasn't every day where he could feel a tremor course through and down his spine. It was the shaky feeling in Gregory's voice, the way he slightly trembled, as if anticipating some climatic fate for the other. That was what kept Christophe thinking.
"This one's different, Christophe," Gregory had said, his voice low, as if knowing the impending fate he was laying on the other, his best friend, his partner in crime. "This man is not just a target. He has a very good contact from what I've heard."
"To who?" Christophe asked, his jaw clenched, a lonesome cigarette dangled from his lips, his voice sounded bitter, his mouth felt bitter, his tongue felt bitter, and his throat and heart felt bitter.
Gregory stayed silent. He didn't respond for a while. He couldn't respond. Because he himself did not know. It was 'confidential'.
Those thoughts kept lingering in Christophe's mind without leaving any sort of reassurance in his head. But now, standing in the alley, as the big holy doors of the iconostasis loom over him, the hinges eerily squeak from the rust as he silently (tries to be) creaks the door open so it cracks an image of the area inside. The nave. It's silence echoing, deafening. His instincts fight him to retreat but he avails.
Christophe felt that same gnawing sense of dread and hesitance crawl up his spine. The job was wrong. He knew it in his gut. Yet, money and revenge spoke louder than instinct. And his desire to use his tool for use.
He wouldn't leave this job undone, no matter how filthy it got.
The cardinal was in front of the altar, knelt in a crouch on his knees as if in a prayer. His head hung down, heavy in contemplation as shadows cast along his robe, long and dreadful. Christophe felt an eerie sensation hit him; something didn't feel right.
But he pushes the feeling down, ignoring the biting, clawing feeling making its way through his whole body. Even though it screams at him to run away, he can't help but drag his feet into the room. Because he has only listened to the quiet, methodical pulse of violence that had guided him throughout his life, through war, through death itself.
He grips the handle of his shovel feeling the wood grasp into the palm of his hands. He steadies himself, ready for anything. He advances. Each footfall sent quiet slivers of sound, but it was barely a hushed whisper. He could barely hear his own footsteps—only the sound of his rapid heartbeats, which were unsteady.
The cardinal didn't move, Christophe knew that the man had heard him, he had to have heard him. But he continued his stance in a prayer, as though he didn't fear death—didn't fear him. This unnerved Christophe. Most men would be trembling by now, aware of the predator in the room. But not this one. No, this one felt different.
The cardinal continued whispering ancient inscriptions, as if they were engraved—programmed into his brain, as if he had rehearsed these lines for millennia.
Millennia...
Christophe suddenly felt a strange presence around him, as if something- someone was watching him, even though there were only two hearts beating in the silent church, he walked down the aisle scarcely. Until he was only a few feet away from the cardinal.
He felt sweat trickle down his neck, the eerie setting, the eerie voices that kept whispering around him, the eerie man in front of him. He takes a deep breath, drawing and raising the shovel's blade as he evolves more ground towards him, ready to bring it down into the back of the man's neck in one swift motion. A clean kill. Silent. Swift. Sweet.
But then, the cardinal's lips stopped moving.
And Christophe hesitated. He hesitated.
"Sheet!" Christophe sneered to himself, jumping back, his boots screeching against the dirty, cloudy tile in reaction to the cardinal who whipped a blade towards him in a split second, slicing the flesh on his forearm, the red crimson substance smearing against the freshly cleaned blade. He winces, a whimper nearly escaping his throat as his eyes focus on the cardinal.
A cloak rested on the top of the man, covering and hiding his identity. The cardinal slowly lifted his head, but he did not turn. He simply straightened his back to Christophe.
Christophe mentally curses at himself for suddenly dropping his guard, he has rarely—if not, never had dropped his guard before. He yanks his trusty shovel, keeping a firm grip on it, letting the newly fixed metal shine in the dim flickering lighting that the church had to offer. Soon, it would have the familiar red colour bathed in it.
He cocks it forwards, anticipating for a battle, bloodlust spreads throughout him, engaging his mindset towards a fight. He yearned for one, his muscles aching to be able to smash and crush the bones that were in the other's bodies with a few bashes from his shovel.
But the man turns around, preternaturally, slowly, as if... as if it wasn't human.
Realisation flashes through Christophe's wide eyes and he has barely any time to react when a force smashes into him, forcing him to choke on air as his body is flung many feet backwards. His back smashes into the wall behind him, plaster and drywall crumbling onto his slumped over form, where he had entered from previously. Before any of this pain-ridden encounter began.
His vision blurs for a moment, it spots black and all he sees are blurry stars. But he feels the other gaining ground and he knows he can't sit on the wall the whole time. He begrudgingly gets up, his fingers slightly trembling from the pain-numbing aching that hit his head, his back, his legs. But he ignores it, because there is nothing else he can do.
As adrenaline slowly kicks in, making him forget about the pain a bit more, as if he took a painkiller, he clearly sees that the cardinal was, in fact, not human.
"Why ees a demon here in a demolished church?" He asked out loud, unexpectedly gaining an answer from the form in front of him.
Its hood lowers with the force of some sort of silent incantation. As its face is revealed yet still a bit blurry- only its eyes, ears and facial area were exposed, pointed ears curved up, like a seed, ready to sprout. Red, bloodshot eyes resurface as their pupils dilate, excitement clearly filling the demon.
"Who sent you here?" It slurred its voice, like a serpent, silently trapping and swarming its prey. Christophe's grip tightens around his shovel, and he uses the long shaft as distance towards him and the predator.
"None of your business you fucking beetch ass demon. Answer my question first." Although Christophe does feel like dopamine enters his body- fueled by fear he contains it within his body and only lets out a calm, collected voice to answer his mouth.
It doesn't answer, and in that moment, instead, it laughs. A shriek, a wail, whatever escaped from its throat resounds and reverberates across the large room. It leaves a lasting, dreadful emotion to nestle in Christophe, he needed to finish the job, fast.
"I'm afraid I can't let you know," The demon replied, it's tongue fluent in the English language as if it's been speaking it its whole life.
"Why not?" Christophe growled back, pushing the shovel more in front before jerking it back, as a warning. But the demon only smiled wider, too precarious to be concerned because of the power dynamic the two currently shared.
Christophe hated it. He has fought many demons in the past, both strong and weak. He shared many battle wounds between them, he was used to their blood staining his hands, their screams loud and obnoxious as they rang in his head, echoing in his ears long after the battle even ended. But in the end, there can only be one victor.
And he doesn't take anything but himself being the one still standing.
Every time a demon fell to his feet, it was the same hollow victory. The usual rush of adrenaline, the small satisfaction of watching his enemies crumble, but then—nothing. Emptiness. As though he had slain another piece of himself along with the monster.
But this time—this one was different, it didn't have any sort of compelling emotion that drove it to madness- where it fought without resistance, only bloodlust engraved in its eyes and the only thought was to kill him. Instead, this one had thoughts- not like a ravaged beast, who's only looking to shed blood.
And that made Christophe hate it even more.
With the demon's guard down, Christophe sees the advantage the demon has unwillingly lent him. But he takes it, shuffling with his feet, he lunges, shovel arched behind his head, expecting the loud slam of metal crushing into the skull, and the expectant blood to be smeared all over him again, like always.
Instead, a smug expression flashes through the demon's expression, and it vibrates, it's body contorting before disappearing in a vibrant, red gas, it extinguishes itself before reappearing behind Christophe, grabbing the other tightly, twisting the brunettes' wrists in awkward ways, listening with contentment and amusement towards the others groans of pain.
His shovel clashes with the ground, it sends a deafening crash throughout the decaying walls of the demolished church, louder than the two of them brutally struggling for dominance. The metallic ring of the impact kept ringing in Christophe's ears, and his breath hitched.
He was beginning to lose hope.
Because his shovel was no longer in his arms to hold.
It lay useless on the tile that began to crumble and reveal the dirt from underneath he ached to hold it back in his arms, it was like an addiction that kept crippling back from withdrawal, especially in a situation where he was high on his feet. He needed that reassuring strong grip, he needed the tool in his hands, where he felt somewhat unstoppable.
Christophe swore he felt like his arms were breaking, any second he was expecting to hear a crack, but if that happened, he would really be in big shit. So, he doesn't let that happen, he kicks his feet, hitting the shin of the demon. After fighting with them for so long, he understands that the ones that resurface on the human world do in fact feel pain, just like any other human—other than its supernatural abilities (and their ability to regenerate at a high speed) there was only one way to really kill a demon.
As the demon bucks its legs, and jolts its body away from surprise, Christophe swipes his feet underneath the demon—this was a low-class demon, its reactions were sluggish, and it was too preoccupied with its own strength to really settle in the battle. It was too confident and smug. Yes, demons had selfish emotions just like humans. It's a sin.
Christophe snags his shovel back from the ground, and twirls around to see the demon sitting on the ground, still in a weary daze, he wasn't sure what it was doing to be exact. Normally demons had high reaction time, but this one seemed off. Very, very, off.
It was an easy kill as Christophe dragged his shovel up, positioning it above the demon's eyes, to kill a demon was to not stab straight through the heart. It was a facade, the demon is already dead, killing the heart will only weaken it.
The room was dark, the occasional lighting barely breached where they were residing, slouched over in the darkest part of the room, Christophe's eyes glinted with a lust that only screamed pain and agony.
The shovel smashes in between the demon's eyes, its jaw wide open, trying to yell- scream, but nothing came out as he pushed more, and more, and more. Until all it leaves out were guttural, blood-wrenching sounds, black goo escapes from its head, gushing out in waves. Demon's skin was tough, like a toughness that was harder than 10 layers of freshly padded dirt.
Once the shovel went through the skull, through the brain, leaving chunks of gore and blood smeared across the blurry floor, Christophe sighed. Leaning against his now bloodied shovel. The battle felt too easy for Gregory to be so worried. Too easy.
And that worried Christophe, but he brushed that feeling off his shoulder, because right now there were more important things to worry about.
"Fucking 'ate zis sheet."
. . .
Christophe slams the door behind him, the dark heavy garbage bag in one hand and a crumpled bag of Cheerios in the other. His boots thudded against the floor as he entered the small space, being welcomed to the smell of laundry detergent with a faint smell of cigarettes- which were coming from his mouth, of course.
"You walked around like that?" Gregory asked, his voice cutting through Christophe's soft moment of silence with his arms crossed as he leaned against the peeling wall of their small apartment. He had an eyebrow raised in an irritatingly judgmental way. His slicked-back hair caught the dim light of their rundown place, and for a moment, Christophe wanted to punch that smug look right off his face.
"Oui. Why does eet matter to you?" Christophe snarled back, his French accent thick with annoyance, obviously in a sour mood.
Gregory sighed, pushing off the wall with a lazy grace, his eyes following Christophe as if the other were a reckless child. He walked towards their computer; the ancient thing was crammed into the corner of their shitty apartment. The screen flickered weakly to life under his fingers.
"Well then, don't run to me when the police start chasing you," Gregory said, his voice filled with that small hint of sarcasm, but softened by familiarity. He barely glanced at the bag in Christophe's hand, but the implication was clear. They both knew what was inside.
Christophe dropped the garbage bag near the door, his scowl ever so slightly deepened. "Let zem try." His fingers tightened around the bag of Cheerios, nearly crushing it in his grip.
There were around three things that Christophe loved in this world.
The first was smoking, the second was digging, and the third was eating Cheerios with a small amount of honey added to the milk.
Gregory gave a knowing look, finally turning from the screen. "You know, you're not invincible. You keep pushing it, mon cher, and one day, I fear the whole world's going to push back against you- harder than you can handle." A sigh escapes him, breathless, fearful, it showed vulnerability in the—always so calculated Gregory. And it ached Christophe ever so slightly.
But he pushed the words back, his eye twitched from the care the other gave. No one cared for him, not in any way, definitely not his mother—his father left as soon as he heard of his existence even though he never even had a name but it didn't matter, he can barely remember his biological parents anyway, "Spare me your useless lectures," He snapped. "Just because you sit 'ere behind your screen doesn't mean you know what eet's like out zere." He tosses the Cheerios onto the table staring hungrily towards the label, as if consuming them while the contents still rested inside the box. "Besides, I took care of eet. No one saw."
Gregory held back a huffed laugh, raising a sceptical brow. He didn't say anything for a moment, watching Christophe carefully. The other grabs a bowl and continues to make himself a small meal with the newly bought Cheerios.
"You're covered in blood and the bag reeks, Christophe. I think someone might have noticed. Don't you think?" He gestured vaguely to the dark splatter that streaked across Christophe's slightly ripped shirt and gloves. A bloodied bandage strapped to his arm, indicating that he was indeed injured in the process.
Christophe shoots him a glare, grabbing a spoon and a bottle of honey- squirting parts of it on the spoon before shoving it in his mouth once it was filled with a mixture of cereal and milk, he places the spoon in the bowl before he wiped his bloodied hands on his jeans with little care. "They should mind zeir own business."
Gregory cringes a bit at the uncleanliness, "Please don't talk with your mouth full—and I don't think people will be able to mind their own business when someone is covered in blood."
"Don't tell me what to do, beetch."
Gregory sighed, positioning himself on the chair so he was facing Christophe more clearly, he silently watched as the other shovelled Cheerio's in his mouth, and for a moment, he felt himself soften. But he closed his eyes, anger already fueling his words, "One day, if you end up getting yourself in a situation where you cannot escape- or someone who overpowers you who won't be as easy to get rid of."
He sighs again and opens his eyes, his eyebrows knit together as he takes in the scruffy appearance of Christophe. "I hope I'm there to watch when it happens." Gregory didn't mean what he said, but it carried a sharp edge, a warning. Although Christophe ignored his advice, a fleeting feeling of worry overrides him as quickly as it came away and he only fills it up with the Cheerio's he had just consumed.
But the words held deep meaning to Christophe, it underlined the very existence as to why he became a mercenary. The excitement of danger, the feeling of being caught so deep is what kept Christophe alive, what made him feel alive. He wanted to believe it wasn't his fault to always get in these incidents, where he was either left alive or left without a scratch. And most importantly to fill the gap he lost. Meaning.
But hearing those few words come out of Gregory's mouth stung, like a poisonous sting. Something trickling down a river, infecting it. Christophe couldn't quite touch on the feeling, but it was unpleasant, something he despised. Especially from someone so close to him.
Unimpressed, Gregory turns back to the computer, skimming through the hundreds of requests he had for missions that Christophe would execute sooner or later, after all he was only a planner. Someone who created the ideas, but had no ambition to engage in them, Christophe was always the one who wanted the front. And this was one of their only stable sources of income.
He kept on searching through the invocations, deleting the uninteresting ones and saving the more interesting ones. His finger on the wheel of the mouse stops as one specific box stuck out to him, it was a newly alerted request and it pricked at the blonde's interests.
He reluctantly clicks on the alert, his eyes bulging a bit before settling back in their sockets. He feels his skin trickle with goosebumps, the reward was high, valuable. Something that could potentially lighten their poor financial state. But it was the request that stuck out more than the price to Gregory. He could feel cold sweat slither around him, it made him feel lightheaded- even though he wasn't even the one pursuing such an odd, dangerous, request. But he would probably have to help in the end anyway, like he always did.
"Christophe." Gregory called out steadily, his voice with a tenseness to it. It dragged Christophe away and out from his daze, and he couldn't help but stare at the back of Gregory's head. Almost admiring how neat his hair was compared to his own, scruffy unkempt mass of bulgy brown. But he looked away, finding his cereal suddenly much more intriguing as he ignored the redness of his own face.
"Whafh?" He muffled out, not bothering to look back at Gregory as he continued to eat with his face puffy with cereal. It was already his 4th bowl. No wonder they never had any food to store.
"You should look at this..." Gregory's voice drawled out low, as if he was testing the waters to Christophe's boundaries of requests. He knew the other had started to take a liking to trying to defeat overpowered enemies, whether they were supernatural entities or the regular crook, mafia leader and what not.
But this was not an ordinary request, it was something far more astronomical than the two of them could imagine, something so far down that even the mortal realm couldn't grasp.
Christophe squinted, his eyes felt bleary from the past few nights of restless sleep—they've been giving him an internal turmoil and he couldn't help but mumble incoherent curses in his own native tongue.
Once his eyes settled and resided on the white inbox request, he could feel his heartbeat quicken. He looked back at Gregory, who could not tear his eyes from the screen. In a thick, underline bolded font was the name of their next mission—or per se victim.
To: Viva la Resistance
Subject: I order you to kill the Antichrist—son of Satan, Damien Thorn.
The rest of the email (or what it seemed like) was blank- no further reclamations to make the request seem more legitimate. It just ended at that one simple line, yet it carried more weight than whatever time and effort were put into writing those few words.
This single request made Gregory anticipate the worst for his fellow companion. The request was strange enough, but the animosity and anonymity was what really intrigued both. Especially for the high price of value they have put on the Antichrist's head. As if, the person who sent this had been waiting for this moment for a very, very, long time.
Gregory's expression stayed stuck to the screen for a while, trying his best to plot out any efficient way of understanding where any of this was coming from, only one thing stayed clear. This was going to be the biggest job the two would ever experience. Possibly throughout their whole career of being mercenaries.
"Who would request this from us..." Gregory subconsciously mumbled out.
But Christophe was thinking on a more broader question, "More importantly. Who ees zis 'Damien Zorn'?" His mind was still far from the fact about what they were asking him, confusion only filtered his voice. But he couldn't help but wonder who and why the name Damien Thorn really hit him. As if he knew him to a personal extent.
The blonde tapped his fingers melodically against the worn out wood of their desk, his sharp mind churned, unable to unravel the mystery behind the request. A more human-like name (despite apparently being the son of Satan) like Damien Thorn was not one to be thrown around aimlessly, especially when you add the title of Antichrist to the mix. This was dangerous, far more dangerous than any of their past missions. Like a final boss.
They weren't exactly sure who this "Damien Thorn" was but they did indeed intend to find out.
They assumed that the Antichrist would be the equivalent to fighting a horde if not an army of demons, all on their own wavelength of strength (stronger than the average demon), the same. Christophe had had tough times fighting one on one with some of the strongest high-classed demons which he liked to call. He always came back, stumbling through the creaky ragged door with either a broken face or a broken body, covered and smothered in not only his blood but the black gunk of what he calls, the "Spawn of a beetch." If one was already a problem to him, one demon with the vigour of them ten fold was not in his book.
"Mon Dieu..." Christophe muttered under his breath, his voice in utter disbelief. He rubbed his tired eyes, the sharp flicker of the screen casting shadows on his face, nothing but the text stood out to him. Especially the big dollar signs labelled in front of him.
It felt like a joke. That someone wanted them (especially them) to kill a power or force so indescribable—one that could ultimately dominate them. But no, this was no joke, the sender made it clear. Adding to the fuel by being anonymous, no sane person in their mind would allow their identity to be visible. Especially for a job- or request this risky.
But to Christophe and Gregory, this was a suicide mission.
The blonde stayed quiet for a moment, rationalising any sort of details- but none were hidden in the small blob of text. He drags his mouse across the screen and scrolls down, and at the bottom of the request, in the same black font was the Antichrist's location.
"Is eet real? Who would send us somezing like zis? Who on earth would zink that we are capable of doing zis?" Questions filtered through Christophe's mind and he couldn't help but let them go.
"I fear that this really is a legitimate request." The blonde answered, breaking the small atmosphere. "There are even coordinates. And a proper location- even a bit of his personal information..."
But there were no answers to who sent them that- or basically any of their intentions towards this abnormal request.
Christophe felt his eyes squint at the screen, still sceptical, but his head desperately wanted it to be true, to feel the rush of battle of a force stronger than him did sound somewhat exciting- but not to the point of dying. If that did end up happening, again, "What eef it ees a trap?"
"It could be, but this person seems to know much about the Antichrist, somehow. I'm afraid this is trustworthy." There is still an abiding emotion hidden in Gregory's voice, it made Christophe feel uneasy. Gregory takes a deep breath, "The only question that lingers is, 'why do they want the Antichrist dead?'." Other than the text telling them to kill the Antichrist, there were no hidden motives spread anywhere, it only made the two fall deeper in a pit of questions.
Another silence envelops around them, the sound of the fan in their shitty computer is the only one that reverberates through their shitty apartment. Christophe sighed, leaning more on Gregory's chair.
Already being fed up with how much time they were wasting by staring at the old monitor screen Christophe jibed, "Who ze 'ell cares- look at zat reward. Think about what we could do with zat money."
Gregory abruptly stood up from the chair, causing Christophe to jolt back not really expecting him to get up. The chair gets pushed farther from the desk and scrapes against the cold tiled floor. He paces around the room, as if letting his legs carry him anywhere that could answer their predicament. His eyebrows still tightly knit together.
"Christophe, this is very dangerous. We should not take this big of a risk so lightly, especially at such a widely ranged advantage that the Antichrist has."
"Yea but I 'ate living here."
"I know you do, but will you be able to live in a better place if you even complete that mission?" The implication was heavy, and Gregory made it clear. It was more likely for Christophe to die than survive, anyone knew that. But that's what Christophe liked, testing the odds of fate that the God up in the clouds created for him, like tripwires ready to detonate with one wrong step.
Christophe scoffed, "If I die, zen I will not hold back my detestment towards your 'God'." He felt disgusted.
"Don't say that, Christophe. You know how painful it was for you to go through that before and how do you even know if you can come back-" Gregory bites his tongue, denying words to spill out of his mouth. He closes his stinging eyes, his teeth clench harder. He helplessly clings onto Christophe's shirt as if it created a barrier towards the path the other already chose.
But the glint in Christophe's eyes was enough to give him the answer about how he felt towards this mission. There was no backing down in Christophe's dictionary, it was clear even when they started this job.
Gregory sighed, letting go of the other, knowing that no matter what, Christophe would pursue this mission, "The invoice is saying that Damien is occupying one of the houses in South Park. 1313 Abaddon to be precise."
Christophe could feel his blood boil, he hated South Park.
"Ze 'ell is he doing zere!" The frustration is evident in his voice, and he has no signs of backing down and covering it up, He balls his hands into fists, his knuckles turning a pale boney white.
"I'm not sure, but I intend to find out. It's been years since we last lived there. I still cannot forgive what happened. I wonder if the same r*tarted idiots are still there. And if he's been living there since... or maybe he moved away when we went there only to come back once we had left-"
"Stop your beetching, I weel go get 'im." As Christophe ends his sentence, he turns around and storms to the door, as his hand rested on the door knob to their shitty apartment Gregory suddenly grabs his wrist.
"Don't do something irrational and get yourself killed, Christophe." His voice was thick, it penetrated Christophe's thoughts and for a second he almost submitted.
Christophe yanks his wrist away from Gregory, sneering, "I zought you wanted to see me get killed, remember."
Gregory pinched the bridge of his nose, cringing a bit, "I wasn't in the right mindset. You know I care about you. If not, more..." Gregory mumbled the last part, but Christophe still heard it, and he couldn't deny the way his heart thumped more—faster- but only for what felt like a split second.
"I don't care. Zis mission will change our lives, we won't 'ave to live in zis shithole anymore. Who cares if it is ze Antichrist, he ees probably just like ze rest of them. So over ze head he zinks he can overpower me. I will prove 'im wrong, end of conversation."
Gregory grips back onto Christophe's wrist, it was more firm, stronger. Invisibly yelling at Christophe to not go, yet. "Just wait, let us gather more information about his whereabouts before heading there with full brute force, who knows what this "Antichrist" is truly capable of."
Christophe narrows his eyes but complies, listlessly walking back towards Gregory and the shitty computer.
"So what research will you be doing? How will you even find anyzing about zis Antichrist? And more importantly, how would it benefit us?"
"Trust me, I have connections."
. . .
Minutes pass by and all I hear are those infuriating clicks from Gregory's keyboard. It's been so long that I'm tempted to gouge my own eyes out just for something to do.
I was laying on the filthy ground, bored out of my goddamn skull.
I traced designs in the ceiling with my eyes and tried my best to use my imagination to make the figures come to life, only to groan, roll on my side towards Gregory and push my elbow up on the floor. I lean my head on my open palm and stare disinterestedly towards Gregory, might I add, who was still on our shitty computer.
"Ze fuck ees taking you so long, you slow-ass donkey?" I grumbled, getting more frustrated to find out he was ignoring me for what felt like an hour. It's not like I wanted to stay all cooped up in a place I didn't even like in the first place. God, I'd blow this whole shitty place up if I could.
Gregory, who was still typing, finally growled back, "I'm sorry that I'm actually concerned for you. "
"Oh, right. How considerate of you. But what ze 'ell are you doing?" I sluggishly get up, half out of guilt, half out of boredom, but he continues tapping away on his keyboard. And I just wanted to get the fuck out of here and beat some demon ass (that I was hired to do of course, I don't just randomly kill things. I'm not that cold-hearted.).
"Trying to find a way where you won't get yourself killed."
What a fucking bummer, my pain tolerance is already pretty high from the hundreds of battles that I fought in- I bet I've been through more fights than Gregory's even thought about. I don't understand why I can't just do my own thing and why he has to take it to another level.
"Eet's simple, really. Go to his home, bust down his door, crush him between his eyes, zen we get the reward." I wave a hand dismissively, "Zen we live 'happily' together just like in zose Disney movies you like to watch." I exaggerated "happy" because I know there is no such thing, and people continuing to talk about that seriously pisses me off.
"This is real life, Christophe. Not one of those corny Disney movies you always watch."
"I don't watch zat garbage, you do. And it's not corny."
"No, you do. I see you snack in the early morning watching those DVD's. And yes, it is corny. You denying it further proves my accusation."
"No, I do not. And no, eet doesn't." Asshole.
Gregory sighed, "Deny it all you want Christophe, now let me work."
"Fuck you too…" I grumbled back.
"I heard that."
I stuck my tongue out to him and flipped him off, he didn't even look so he couldn't tell. Hah serves him right for locking me in this dump. He's practically torturing me, locking me up and dangling this 'Antichrist' mission in front of me like a cigarette. Ok, I really should stop acting childish, but it's not my fault he locked me in this place.
He's fucking edging me by not letting me smack this 'Antichrist's' head open.
And I swear, I will lose my mind if I don't crack someone's skull soon.
. . .
I hear Gregory take a deep breath, that's how I knew he was finally finished whatever cocksucking job he was doing on that shitty junk.
"Christophe, we're going to be getting help from someone I am well acquainted with."
Wait what.
"What ze fuck do you mean? What do you mean getting 'elp from someone else? Who ees zis person you are well acquainted with anyway?" This was supposed to be our thing. Not inviting someone else that we would have to explain to about our situation and making things harder- on me especially. Working with others either gets me killed or gives me serious brain damage that I can not repair. I hate working with others.
"Trust me, Christophe. He will be very reliable."
"I never asked for zis. Cancel it-"
"He's already making his way here."
"Quoi? Non- nonon, let me go out zere and kick him out zen-" Just as I was about to go towards the door I can hear a bell ring from the shitty door of our shitty apartment, I seriously want to rip my ears out. This was supposed to be a simple mission, now we're getting help from more r*tards. What is this, kiddy hour? All we gotta do is go in his house quietly and protrude his eyes and brains out of his skull. Not make things this complicated. Mon dieu...
I stormed my way there only to be pushed to the side by Gregory. I was about to instinctively deck the cocksucking bitch but I was too late because a replica of him was standing right in front of me.
"Who ze fuck are you, you cocksucking-" Gregory hits my shoulder, I'm about to bite back but the blonde shaggy head speaks.
"Why hello there, my name is Phillip Pirrip. But most people call me Pip because they hate me."
I snort and roll my eyes, this was supposed to be my help? Gregory has completely lost his mind, "Zen I'll join zem."
I could feel Gregory burn holes in the back of my head, but I really couldn't care right now. At this moment I just wanted to get this over with.
But this kid kept his stupid smile and only nodded, as a sign of respect. As if my insult was a compliment.
"Christophe, be nicer." Gregory ordered, in that annoying, calm, British tone of his.
"Fine, whatever." I really don't want to listen to this Pip any more than I wanna listen to another one of Gregory's scoldings, but if I resist any longer then this process will only be more dreadful.
"So, Gregory," This pipsqueak said- and oh, I get his name now. "Most demon's are highly against the usage of holy water. I suggest we-"
"Holy water?" I practically spit the words out. "Zis is your grand plan? Holy water?"
Pip nods enthusiastically like a fucking bobblehead. "Yes, Christophe. Demons are known to have severe reactions to holy water. It could give us a significant advantage."
"Advantage?" I scoff, rolling my eyes so hard I might just see the back of my skull. "We don't need holy water. We need a shovel and a bullet to ze head. Simple. Clean. Effective."
Gregory sighs, that patient, self-righteous sigh of his, which makes me want to throttle him. "Christophe, you can't solve every problem with brute force."
I fold my arms and glare at him. "Why ze hell not? Hasn't failed me yet."
"That's not how this works. Demons are more complex than human enemies and especially the Antichrist—"
"Zat's bullshit and you know it. A good sharp shovel between ze eyes works on anything." I pull my shovel out from its case, just to make my point crystal clear. Gregory doesn't even flinch, though. Pity.
"Be that as it may," he says, pushing his glasses (that somehow suddenly appeared) up his nose and sliding a loose strand of hair behind his ear, I couldn't help but stare a bit, "we're not just fighting a regular demon. This is the Antichrist. We need to be smarter about how we approach this."
I shake my head and snarl at him.
"Smarter?" I laugh bitterly. "I already told you my plan. Walk in, kill him, and walk out. No holy water required. What ees zis, a Catholic school play?"
Before Gregory can answer, Pip chimes in with that infuriatingly polite tone. "Actually, Christophe, holy water is quite effective—"
"I know what holy water does, Pip. I despise it more because of how it ees created." I cut him off, narrowing my eyes. "What I don't understand is why we're overcomplicating zis. What do you think's going to happen? Ze Antichrist is going to start throwing gazillion demons at us?"
Gregory's calm gaze meets mine, and for once, he looks almost amused. What a cocksucker. Who gave him the right to mock me? "Maybe not demons, but Christophe, listen to me. We need to protect ourselves—you need to protect yourself."
I snort. "I've protected myself just fine, Gregory. Hundreds of battles. Thousands of scars. All without your precious holy water." I jab a finger at Pip. "And definitely without ze help of little schoolboys."
Pip, to his credit, doesn't lose his annoying smile. "I assure you, Christophe, I'm quite capable in battle."
I take a step closer, towering over him, trying to intimidate him. "You better be. Because if you slow me down, I'll feed you to ze demons myself."
For a moment, I expect Pip to flinch, to finally drop that ridiculous smile. But instead, he nods. Nods. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
Gregory steps between us before I can snap. "Enough," he says, he gives me a 'quit acting like a child' look and scowls at me. "We're working together on this, and that's final."
I stare at him, fists clenched, every muscle in my body tense with frustration. My mind races with all the ways I could solve this problem—starting with shoving Gregory's calm face into the nearest wall—but I hold back. Barely.
"Fine. But zis better not slow us down." I storm past them both, heading for the door. "Let's go kill zis bastard so I can get back to not giving a fuck."
I could feel Gregory shrug behind me before cleaning whatever mess was back there and turning off our shitty computer. I wait outside the complex, smoke filling the area—I'm honestly surprised we haven't gotten kicked out of this place yet.
Once the door opened again revealing the two, I quickly began to walk ahead, not really sure of where I was going. But I didn't bother to look back, I didn't want to end up beating the crap out of both of them so I stormed off, with no idea where I was heading.
I guess when I do get lost I'd have to turn back to Gregory, like I always do in the end. Shameful.
"I guess we are going back to South Park zen."
I hate that place… but not as much as I hate God and for what he has bestowed upon me.
—
the prologue is now officially done! the next chapter will introduce damien and i am excited (i hope you are too) to see how this story unfolds...
is the 1st/3rd person perspective POV ok? or should I just keep it in 3rd... ill try to improve my 1st person into a more mental type of analysis so you cna see the psychological aspects of the characters more clearly rather than my 3rd pov that doesnt dive much into that feature..
i also hope i didnt butcher christophe to much (if he seems a bit mean right now it will change! (reasons why he is so mean/hot-headed) also because i want to show a lot of character growth between the main protags (greg, dam, chris)...)
lemme know what you think and! review please though (very fond to criticism)! thank you~ :DD (probably wont be updated in a few months at least)