War: Zero For Conduct

Forgive me, Death. I would never harm you, did I not believe it the only way -- the only way to save you from your own doubt, to keep you from destroying yourself with this folly.

And I needed the head start, the moment of distraction and surprise that such an act would cause. I hate myself for it...but as the humans so rightly say: all’s fair in love and war.

I send away my sword for the moment to race through the shadows to the chapel, knowing that to spill blood there would very likely cost me my title, were it not for the life that shall spill across my blade. The antichrist. Michael’s righteousness and belief are not in doubt, even for Death, so who am I to doubt the word of the General?

The chapel is empty, the glass door to the innermost sanctum open. I almost laugh. This human really was born to die. I slip inside.

The kid sits against one of the columns next to the great altar, upon which the book of God rests. His legs are stretched out before him, one ankle crossed over the other. He’s rubbing his face with his fingers. Several books lay open on the floor, all bound by shimmering, pale covers. Death’s neat, precise writing covers each page. She gave him her records? Why would she…?

No distractions. The kid must die.

He brings his hands down in time to see me as I step from the shadows. The tiredness quickly falls to some kind of disgust, and he asks, “What do you want?”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve sounding pissed at me, antichrist.”

“I’m not the antichrist.”

I scoff, “Sure you’re not, kid.”

“I’m not,” he insists, coming to his feet.

“What -- you think you’re Apostle Peter? Deny three times to God and it’ll all be fine?” I nod at the massie crucifix behind him, “Hate to break it to you, antichrist: the Big Guy is pretty big on vengeance.”

“Shut up!” His hands ball into tight fists, and I can see the blood rushing to his cheeks as they burn a delightful shade of red. “I’m not the antichrist! I have a name!”

“What’s that to me?” I snort. You won’t live long enough for me to bother remembering it.

He fixes me with an icy stare, “Apologize, you asshole.”

I do not bother to hide the sneer that I cannot repress every time I look at him. An apology? There is nothing for me to apologize for, but alright. I’ll give him the only apology that matters.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I’m sorry you were born.”

I laugh, feeling everything in my body come alive.

“Face it, kid,” I stalk towards him, sword appearing in my hand. His eyes flick from my hand to my face, body instinctively setting itself to fight, even as he backs away. “You're nothing more than a mistake that the Big Boss is trying pretty hard to correct. I guess you can say I’m being a good boy and performing some extra credit by deleting your existence.”

You’re the reason Death is like this. You’re the reason everything’s gone to shit.

I won’t let you be the reason Death leaves.

I lunge and he swears, eyes going wide with fear. Stupid kid: did you think you reason with War? I lash forward, the kid manages to dodge and give me a good kick to the back that makes me stumble. A yell rises from my belly to rip out of my throat and that’s fucking it.

The kid’s running toward the exit at top speed -- ready or not, here I come.

A bright, golden light explodes in front of the door, inches from the kid, blowing him onto his back. It’s a small miracle the glass of the door doesn’t shatter into dangerous shards. The kid slides back until his head hits the wall. He’s out. I should thank this angel when I’m done.

A hand grips my sword arm, the other at my throat and lightning rips through me. I fall to the floor. Fuck, that hurt.

“Rami’el!” a voice yells. The other human must have heard the kid shouting at me. He’s breathing heavily and rushes to the kid, checking him -- mostly his head. I watch his shoulders relax; the kid must be alright. Well, that’s a shame.

That hand lifts me up and the light dims, touched by dark shadows. The two-eye-coloured angel snarls at me, well, like a demon, lips curled ferally back; I swear his canines are lengthening, or maybe it’s just the light. Those damn Wings always do burn bright, even with this one’s shadows.

“Rami’el, don’t!” the older human barks from his place on the floor with the kid.

I want to laugh: does he think he can order an archangel? Ah, that’s right: this particular archangel is his daddy.

It distracts Ramiel a moment, and that moment is all I need. I summon my sword back to my hand from where it had clattered to the floor and slice the appendage that holds me aloft. As I fall, I aim a hit at his leg, though I don’t think I get him quite like I wanted.

You wanna play? Let’s play, motherfucker. I take off, reaching the outer chapel before something slams me to the ground, hard. Harder than anything I’ve ever experienced. The air is knocked from me, and a foot hot as hellfire crushes my hand so that scarred fingers can pry my sword from my grasp.

“I’ll admit,” I manage, finding it more than a little difficult to talk, “you’re faster than I thought. Did your master really--”

“Master?” a voice chuckles, and it’s not Ramiel. A cold sensation settles deep in the pit of my insides. “No, no, War...I shook off the chains of any master long ago.”

The voice kicks me over onto my back and I look up, through the bright light that would blind any human, into the face of the Prince of Darkness.

I laugh, almost unable to believe it.

Oh...this is now so much more interesting.