First, came the great deluge.
A mighty rapid washing over every little piece, licking each marble clean, tearing the grand image apart. Like loose bricks, it all toppled under the flood's grand weight, fell apart like a frame made of sticks. Andy tried to run, yet there was nowhere to turn to. The city - nearly entirely underwater. The red hallway - filled with millions of tears, all of them tearing the redheaded girl's pictures clean off the walls, throwing them around, letting them float above the surface, unreachable to the boy's hand. He kept scraping the bottom, staring up at the faint glimmers of light breaking through - unable to swim upwards, unable to reach the end of the hallway and open the door. Somehow, he knew she wouldn't be there. Not tonight, not ever again. Why would she? Who would ever want to see such a disgusting sight as himself? All wet with blood of the righteous, a dimmed light barely floating above his head. The beams of radiance on his back had long gone dim, disappeared entirely, like Droz's once did. Something was poking its way through his curls, tearing apart his skin and climbing out, onwards, towards freedom. Vines of primal desire, the violent urge to live, they caressed his brain, entwined themselves gently around and hugged it tight. Images of angels strung up with nooses around their necks plagued his vision, a devil clad in black held his eyes wide open. He tried to scream, to shove the creature away but to no avail. It laughed and laughed, enveloping his very soul in a veil of pure cold - their fingers burned his skin with ice, their frost-white hair covered his gaze. He could see nothing but a face. A laughing, smugly grinning face, a crude mixture of familiar eyes, noses and lips. Cheeks and brows, hair and foreheads, all mushed together into one, crude mockery of a person he once used to know. It laughed and laughed, pushing their fingers deeper into his eyes, tearing their protective layer and popping them open. White substance painted the chamber, mixed with red and gave orange. He fell to his knees and begged for it to stop, but it never did. The vines sprouting from his head kept growing, his spine elongated to monstrous sizes. Despite his pleas, despite his words and cowers, the familiar demon in front would not stop laughing. Laughing and cheering, cheering and laughing. Eager to watch his metamorphosis, to watch him lose what made him Andy.
And he could only whimper. Snuggle up to his own tail and cry. This was his life, now.
This was his new self.
…
One morning, when Andrew Reiff woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed(roll) into a horrible vermin. No, actually, nothing of that sort. He lay on his shattered wings, and if he lifted his head a little, he could see the broken fragments floating lazily by his sides. The bedding (roll) was hardly able to contain the shards, which now seemed to be leading a life of their own, pastured by the boy's gaze. He was utterly terrified.
"..." Without a word, he stood from the ground. A little heavier than usual, his head tilted to the side, as if pulled down by a foreign weight tugging at both his sides. His stomach grumbled, not from hunger, but from the deep wound still embedded within. "Damn it." He thought, feeling up the smooth, slippery surface that now broke through the cloud of gray hair and ran all the way around, curling around his head. He knew this would happen, just as it was foretold in the many, many cautionary tales he's heard. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, they said. As if on its own, his tail wafted around the air, tracing circles and cutting through the morning dew with some hints of grace and elegance. When it came into vision, Andy's face went pale all over.
He sat back down on his bedroll and caught the slippery intruder between his fingers. It fought back, trying its best to cut itself loose and failing miserably. Bending under the sudden jerks and feral movements, the tail had no real idea what it was doing. It wanted to run, yes, but where? Run away, but only as far as its own length let it, as the base still remained bolted down to the boy's skin, right at the very bottom of his spine. He examined the wriggling worm close, sliding his fingers along the gray-ishly black, glistening surface. It felt weird. Like leather, but not quite. Pleasant, yet disgusting at the same time. And the desperate jerks and motions, like some snake trying to bite the hand holding it's throat. It made his blood freeze over and complexion turn from white to green. The pain in his chest, the bullet wound, did not exist anymore. It was just a dot of red, completely insignificant in the face of this monstrosity.
At the very tip, a little leaf-like piece of "skin" had formed, his very own ace of spades. If it wasn't for the absolutely deplorable condition of his own mind, he'd probably think the tail looked kind of nice, maybe even cool, but that wasn't the case. He sat, on the brink of passing out, curling the tail around his fingers. This curse, the mark he was now forced to bear for all eternity. W's words about being "more Sarkaz than most devils he knew" rang in his ears, as the slippery worm wriggled and squirmed in his grasp. A little while later, Andy caved in and let his stomach loose into an empty dinner-bowl resting by his side. He vomited yesterday's salt soup back out and wiped the residue with his sleeve, feeling even worse than he did before. Puking usually helped relieve any tensions tugging at one's stomach, yet it only made his worries worse, mostly about the fact his chances of ever making it back to the White City and hugging Lemuel close went from less than one percent to nigh zero.
With his guts all in turmoil, head spinning and still unnaturally heavy, the boy fell back onto his makeshift bed. What a terrible way to start the day. Arguably worse than waking up to your dear friend lying next to you, dead and frozen, with his throat cut wide open. His fingers groped around the ground, narrowly avoiding the messy pile of clothes threatening to fall over and bury him in bloodied rags, only to come across a tiny piece of glass. The moment of truth. A new look for the new Andy.
"..."
Upon raising the mirror to his face, a new wave of queasy disgust washed over, soaked him in cold sweat and sent a fist plummeting into his already weak stomach. Combined with the smell of puke that wafted around the tent, it was only natural for him to turn over and vomit once more.
Staring into the mirror, wiping his face clean, the boy kept blinking and blinking in disbelief. A steady quiver took over his bottom lip, as his hands rose towards the blackened keratin giants sticking out from the lush, gray forest of his messy curls. Hard and smooth, twirling around his head, bending back and then advancing forth, like some devilish roller-coaster, the horns were almost the size of his arm. Definitely weighed as much. Notch-less, pure and pristine, yet also permeated with some dark, hellish energy, they taunted him with their slick, pointy ends and shiny exteriors. With every glint of the morning shimmer reflecting off their surface came a statement, a tease, a remark that he's stuck with these two monstrosities sticking from his head for the rest of his pitiful existence. OutLawed, shunned, seen as something lesser, just because he made a mistake. The second worst mistake of his life, right after enlisting.
And on top of that (literally), his halo went dim. Floating above his head, black and void of any gray radiance, it sat there like a corpse of its former self. A dead saint. A severed divine link, never to be established again, to leave him there, cast from the garden of Eden, the Law's backyard, thrown into the wild on his own, forgotten by the graceful nurturers of the holy.
He stared and stared, slowly but surely losing feeling in all limbs. Hands, legs, they all went limp. The mirror fell onto his face with a soft thud, bounced off and clattered on the ground. He didn't even feel any pain, not from the glass hitting his nose, not the nine millimeter hole in his chest, or the knot tightening around his stomach. Just the overbearing thought of becoming what most would call a "Fallen Angel." A traitor of the Law.
A traitor…
A… Traitor…
A fresh wave of cold played on the cymbals of his spine. Tink, tink, clink, each bone clattered melodically and shook, breaking any sort of resolve he might've had left.
Guns don't take kindly to traitors. Guns don't like it when angels act up. Guns are unconditionally loyal, yes, but there's a limit on everything in this world. A limit on the amount of atrocities from its owner a gun can tolerate.
His gaze slowly shifted towards the leather belt hanging by the tent entrance. The boom-stick standing on patrol right by.
Vinny and Nuffer. Two buddies, his bestest of friends. True allies of the wicked, slayers of hell's hordes. Dead, with steel for skin and ori-dust for blood, yet so full of life. Full of judgment, full of disdain and disappointment. In a daze, the boy could almost see the black ooze seeping from their barrels and spreading its suffocating fumes all across the tent. The walls, as if shrinking, closed in on him, entrapped forever and hugged tightly from each side, grabbing each speck of air in his lungs and violently ripping it right out.
Andy closed his eyes and sighed. Time for a range test.
…
Click. Tch-tch. Click. Tch-tch.
Another trigger pull.
Another bolt rack.
Clink, clink.
Another cartridge joined the pile of lead forming by his elbow. Under the watchful eye of his first in command, Andy focused his utmost will on the bullet resting within the rifle's chamber and begged for it to ignite.
Click.
Nothing. Null.
The gun refused to fire.
"..." With genuine sadness in his eyes, he watched the weapon he's conquered the hellish wastelands with disobey his direct orders. More than that, he watched his only, true friend turn his back on him. He watched Droz die a second time. Nuffer followed suit.
"Nothing." Murmured the red-headed giant. A group of masked mercenaries gathered round, watching the boy's attempts at plinking a steep pot off a tree stump a couple yards away. Some scratched their meaty necks and chins in boredom, others whispered amongst themselves, pointing out the black horns atop his head and wagging tail. Despite his beaten mood, that worm kept wiggling around and jumping all over the place like an excited puppy. Andy gave a sigh. "Nothing." He confirmed and sat up.
"Nothing. Might as well dump you." Ines joined in, throwing her own five shekels. The woman stood above him, hands on her hips, watching his horns with utmost skepticism, a glimmer of genuine disgust shimmering somewhere within her eyes. "... Sankta without a gun, that's like a man without a -..."
"Ines…" Hedley cut in, slicing her comparison short. "... You wouldn't have gone on today's mission either way." He addressed the boy, as he picked his toy-guns off the ground and flicked the safety on.
"... 'Cause of the wounds?"
"'Cause of the wounds." With a nod, he affirmed his reasoning. "You'll stay at camp with the rest. Take W, cook us dinner. Only way to be useful, I suppose." He added, after a second of hesitative thinking.
Andy scoffed at the single-letter name. "W." Can we stop calling her that? She's not him."
To his surprise, Ines remained quiet at the remark, even gave him a nod. The two had come to a muddy, shaky common ground when it came to hating that "W"-shaped creature who now wore his robes with pride.
"That's how things are, whether you like it or not. She snatched his gear, picked up the weapons of the fallen, gave them a new purpose, but the goal remains the same. She's W and we're not arguing about that again." The man stated simply and crossed his massive arms. A glance flew towards the woman by his side, who rolled her eyes and walked off. "... I don't care if you do or don't get along, I'm expecting you two to work together, and dinner to be ready by the time we're back. Understood?"
"..." It was futile to argue. With the real W gone, Hedley rushed up the corporate ladder and became the creme de la creme, the first in command of their tattered squad of worthless drunks and radical idealists. Andy never really understood which ones were worse. "... Sure. Sure, I'll cook something up."
"You'll cook something up with W by your side." The unofficial merc-king corrected him.
Andy sighed, but caved. "... With that creature, yeah. Sure."
"Mm." He murmured a little and let out a breath. Clutching his fingers into a fist, the man then raised it high above his head and spun in place, gathering the attention of every single masked mercenary standing by. Their casters, flag bearers, devilish blade-warriors, crossbow-snipers, the whole lot. They dropped their cigarettes, pushed them down into the dirty snow with their rubber soles and grumbled. "Move out, join your second in command. Follow Ines, she's opening today, I'll be closing." His booming voice commanded the company of misery. "... Look lively, scum, or we'll leave you in the dirt before we get to the ambush site. Move out!" He added, after a moment.
As the grumpy orchestra gathered their instruments and shuffled through the snow, Hoederer stayed behind, counting each head, each pair of horns floating through the snowy wasteland. Like ants crawling across a sheet of paper, they quickly followed in Ines' tracks, huffing and puffing, thunderous footsteps dampened by the white puff's natural gentleness. Standing at the edge of their makeshift merc-central camp, only the boy remained, by the side of his first in command.
"So…" Andy started, following the giant's gaze that led his men onward to glory and hopefully a fat paycheck. They've been staring at their backs for quite a while, neither willing to speak. Hedley took a small breath and broke the awkward silence, eyes locked on the marching band of deathly clowns.
"... Don't worry about her words." He said, as if revealing some big secret. "She's just on edge. Been like this for a while, too. You're an easy target to relieve all that pent up tension and stress on, so she's toying with you. But no worries, we won't drop you. Not until you give us a good reason to, at least."
"..." Andy flicked his eyes to meet his. Null, he kept staring ahead. Prick. "... Uh… We're talking about Ines, right?"
"Yup." He nodded.
"..."
"..."
"... Okay. Thanks?"
"Mmm." The giant produced another nameless noise. "We'll figure something out. Someway to make you useful."
"..." Way to up his self esteem. "Yeah, we will. Sure will."
"But not now. I've got killing to do, you've got dinner to cook. Any plans?"
"Plans?" Andy tilted his head, perplexed at the sudden interest. It was usually business and planning with Hedley, never what's for dinner.
"Mm. I'm not a machine, I've got taste buds and a stomach that runs dry eventually. I'll fight better with the thought of something nice and warm waiting for me back at camp, so give me a hint." The man offered a soft smile, finally gracing the boy with his gaze. A rare sight for sore eyes, the merc's lips curved in any way, breaking the endless stream of stoicism.
"..."
Andy jerked his eyes back towards the camp. Towards the forest of tents, all gray and splattered with white, some genius' idea of camouflaging an entire merc company. They stood there, fluttering in the wind, housing the camp's measly supplies hidden beneath a few pieces of tarp.
"... We've got… What do we even have?"
"Not sure." The giant shrugged. "Potatoes? Definitely potatoes."
"Oh, yeah. Definitely potatoes. Still, W-bought potatoes, I think."
"Mmm. Moron had a thing for potatoes."
"Sure did."
"..."
"..."
Awkward silence, once more. Hedley should really work on his conversation skills when it comes to day-to-day interactions, Andy thought. All that war and misery really boiled his brain over. The man seemed completely unphased by the silence though, simply staring at the camp dwellers strolling around their tents.
"... Potatoes it is, then." Andy murmured and hugged his guns close.
"That'll do. I'm just a merc, after all, can't be expecting a three course feast fit for the Ursine Emperor." Hoederer gathered his killing tools as well, fixing his ranged arsenal, grabbing the hilt of his blade. "Good luck with that."
"Mmm." The boy grumbled a little as a large hand soon invaded the space between his newly grown horns and ruffled his hair. "... And good luck with that ambush."
"Oh, we won't need luck." He chuckled. "Just need those morons to do what they're told."
Andy stood at the edge of the tarp-forest, watching the restless devil tearing through the snowy plains. The wind's gentle howl drowned out his booming footsteps and clattering of metal hitting against the armor plates, as he dragged himself through the white ocean, soon disappearing behind a hill - first, his combat boots, then the weaponry, followed by the cape, and finally his contrasting hair and horns. All gone, swallowed whole by the snow.
"..."
He blew a raspberry. Pfffft.
This could have very well been their last goodbye. Last few words, forever engraved into the imaginary tombstone that'd emerge within the boy's head, the grand initials "H&I" engraved onto its marble skin. Nah, they wouldn't die. Not them.
Shuffle, shuffle.
Draggling through the snow, following some invisible deity of grand feasts and the will to spread joy, through the stomach to the heart, Andy submerged himself in the camp's daily wrong and rightdoings. Passing by the nightguards' tents, he heard the lazy snoozes of a few Sarkaz bulldogs who kept the perimeter all nice and safe during those freezing, midnight snowstorms that hit them every week or two. Each piece of grayish-ly sad tarp had its own designated campfire in front, reduced to just a few smoldering sticks by this late morning hour. Every now and then he'd pass by a few pale-skins cuddled up together, clutching their cigarettes and coffee cups with frostbitten fingers. Some strangers, some familiar faces. Some, still basking in the sweet peals of moonlight-induced lovemaking of yesterday, others sharing the troubles, emotional grief, the weak and the wicked. Taking in the sights, Andy unscrewed his frown right off, instead opting to enjoy the entertainments that awaited on his early-morning stroll. The red rooms, green tables, souvenirs of war tumbling under colorless tarps, all trophies plundered and looted from the many towns and cities they passed through. Industrial giants, small, gated communities, ruined villages, burnt down fields, hidden bunkers, graveyards of rope and flesh, welcoming them from high above - Kazdel had it all. Sure to make some memories, haunting or fabled, where not a single devil knew the taste of the gallant mist of red blooded chivalry instilled in basic training. The training that they lacked, all of them, every single one. You give a hound some meat and tell them to kill under a promise of getting more, it'll slaughter an entire town without the blink of an eye. Such were the Kazdelian mercenaries, the devils that roamed these lands. By standing in line today, they secured a warm dinner and a few shekels tomorrow. The only thing that bound them to this little camp, these tarp-buckets, wooden poles, smoldering decay of fire-remains and the few people in charge was the coin. They sought nothing else but the coin. Except for the idealists who fought in somebody else's name. A phantom lord, tugging at their strings from above, be it an idea or an actual person, doesn't matter. They'd cut and they'd get cut up for their idol - whether it was real or not. Some, who genuinely believed that the war was something more for Kazdel than just a quick way for its many mercs to make bank off of, knew that to die for their country solved nothing. To kill for your country? Different story. Load up on steel, buy your friendly caster a pint, head out onto the front and make yourself useful. Stop by a town, visit a joyden, deposit your hard earned war-funds. Don't tell your name, because you have none. Don't ask for hers, you'll be gone in a couple minutes, anyway. In this temporary land of oysters, you're the whole world. How painless, the plainness of a few hours spent in a merc shanty-town was. Military life would always resume tomorrow night, turning the lords of the game into snivelling fucks that stained the snow red. Arts, steel and bullets. Mounds of originium. All made for men like them, the impotent idiots gods forgot.
Andy blew another raspberry. Why think of such banal endeavors when something far more important awaited? Speaking of…
He stood in front of the lion's den. Gray, tattered, hanging barely from a few shapeless wood-beams. No way to peek inside without violating its structural integrity, yet… So alluring. The creature's tent.
She had to be sleeping, that lazy bum. Does fuck-all, sleeps for half the day, then walks around and wails about being bored. What a disgrace to the Sarkaz race. Seeing his current ungracious disposition, it was safe to count oneself as a member of the devil species. The horns and tail spoke for themselves.
The worm wiggled in anticipation, wrapping itself tight around his leg. Andy clicked his tongue and slapped it away, which caused it to whimper in fear and curl itself near the snow by his boot. Good riddance.
Having located two steel pans lying loosely around, he gathered his strength and approached the tent's entrance. With his ear pressed against the fabric, he could clearly hear some soft, uneven breathing coming from inside, the sweet sounds of a sly devil snoozing soundly, like a girl should. Not for long, though.
Andy brandished his grand instruments and lightly tapped them together. Ohoho, such a nice sound. Familiar, too. Almost brought a tear to his eye, the memory of W dancing around with pans at the crisp, early hours of the day still fresh in his mind. A real danse macabre, his very own tango with death beating out a fast rhythm with its skeletal fingers. Snap, snap, along to the clattering of the pans.
Cling, clang.
He braced himself for the barrage of noise, temporarily forgetting the entry wound in his stomach, the horns on his head and the tail cowering by his leg. It was time.
Wakey-wakey, "W."