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Date Started: 2/22. [Angel's Address.]
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Gloved knuckles would rap against the wooden door before him, the attire of this man being that of his usual. A black, well-pressed suit, with a red undershirt and tie--who knew that even those that lurked amongst the demons had a talent for color coordination? Atop his head he wore a black hat, which shadowed his fiery red gaze, for the moment. "Hello? Is this not the residence of Renaud Haze?" The voice was put-on, imitating that of innocence, not one that wished to bring ill-will. A perfected killer, a perfected actor...even the words were eloquent. Seraphim could do no wrong. ...But of course that was an outright lie."Wh-Who is it?” It was the nervous response from behind the door. “My name is Richard Brier, I’m just conducting a survey on the living conditions of this apartment complex.” “Ah, all right." A male voice came from inside the home, and the door was opened, slowly. "I'm very sorry...I've been very paranoid as of late.""Oh? May I ask as to why? --May I?" Seraphim's gaze remained shadowed beneath the rim of his hat, but he'd motion inward with his hands."Oh, of course! Come in, come in."Stepping aside, he'd allow the raven-haired devil further inside his home. A mistake, which would be his last.-"Now, why was it that you've been worried, Comrade?" "It's my neighbors, Sir. They've been telling me that the devil with hair of night and eyes like blood would come for me, they're saying I've committed treason. Surely a man like you could understand my worries." "Oh yes, of course." "Pardon my rudeness, but you don’t seem to be carrying a clipboard."
“My, quite the observant one, Mr. Haze.” With a tip of his hat, he'd tilt his head heavenward, revealing the scarlet of iris that lay obscured beneath the rim of black hat. "The Angel Gabriel often said; 'Do not be afraid,' yet the one that stands before you, encourages that terror. I am that man of which you've long feared...The Devil with Red Eyes, Agent Seraphim. May your life have been a fine one, for your death shall be anything but." "Oh my dear God!" The struggle would begin, yet soon would it end once the man cried out for help. Seraphim prided himself on carrying out mission after mission, without so much as a glance of suspicion from neighboring persons. Gloved hands would find themselves snaked around the man's neck, and he'd be lifted off of his feet, eyes wide with the utmost horror. "Please, please have mercy! For the love of Go--" "There will be no talk of God in my presence. The only word beginning with that sound shall be Government, the institution of which you have betrayed." "Please, I beg of you--uck!"
Seraphim's hands would swiftly turn, a satisfying snap of bone resounding from the action. Renaud was silenced, and once Seraphim released him, would fall to the floor with a thud. Adjusting the hat that he replaced atop his head, his wrist would be raised to his lips, and words would be uttered. <o:p></o:p>
"Renaud Haze has been vaporized. MissionAccomplished. Send in the clean up crew.""Good Job, Agent Seraphim. They will be on their way." He'd press the button upon the watch once, and silently, he'd exit the room, like a shadow. The soft clicks of finely shined shoes resonated on the rocky floors of the alleyway, his hand raised to readjust that darkened hat, obscuring the beauty below it. But was he alone in that alley? Perhaps someone had watched him that entire time as he killed with such ease and lack of remorse. And yet, that was his internal beauty. You wanted, so badly, to make that Devil feel goodness in his heart. Many a woman, and man, had fallen to his Luciferian charms and beauty, died a horrible death as they stroked the long silken hair of midnight. He was an enthralling individual, and demanded attention, even while doing such simple acts as walking past another. But the attraction to the Devil was always strong, undeniable....would even an Angel fall from grace in order to dwell with him in passionate flames? Perhaps.<o:p></o:p>
Seraphim’s continued strides would direct him back to the shining tower of ‘hope’ in this dreadful city; the government’s central head quarters. Some refer to it as ‘The Ministry of Love,’ yet Seraphim merely thought of it as his playhouse of horrors. Seraphim would pause, glancing at his watch; 0545 hours. Fifteen minutes early. Without fail, Seraphim would arrive at his office at 0600 hours. Yet his ‘last little joy’ of the morning had taken less time than he had expected. No matter. The sun would still rise and set, even if he arrived at work early. But, something caught his attention. He could feel the presence of another, a pair of eyes peering behind glass. As his lifted arm fell back at his side, his blood-colored eyes would shift in that person’s direction. What did a person feel when an Agent like Seraphim was staring at them? Did their heart skip? Was their breath caught in their throat? Seraphim allowed the corners of his lips to be tugged, resulting in a fleeting smile. He smiled at that person, an action that was sure to leave their mind racing.<o:p></o:p>
Yet, as swiftly as he had turned his attention toward those prying eyes, he would detach it. Rotating on a heel, he would turn his back to the glass, raven strands wavering in the motion. It was time for the Devil with Red Eyes to begin his day. Fourteen minutes early.<o:p></o:p>
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“Young Lord, won't you even consider listening to reason?” There was a kindly gentleman, back bent and eyes observing the young, golden-haired man with scrutiny. “Why should I? My pockets run deeper than the soil this home is built upon. Why not put it to better use?” The older man leaned back, his wrinkled face contorted with evident dismay. “You know the fate that befalls those that oppose---“ “Don't say it, Ansell. Why must you always worry about me? Why not put a little more faith in me, for once?” The headstrong noble paused for a moment, his warm gaze drifting off, before returning to the worried facade of his most loyal servant. “What is my name, Ansell?” The servant would blink repeatedly, slightly confused by the youth’s inquiry. “Tokugawa Yukio.” “That’s right, Ansell, my name is Yukio. And your name is Ansell.” “Where are you going with this, Young Lord?” “Yukio means ‘The One Favored By God,’ and your name means ‘God’s Protection.’ With you on my side, and with that man in the Heaven’s forcing my hand, directing my righteous action…what is there to fear?” Before Ansell could even respond to the youth’s statement, Yukio was already on his feet and heading, quickly, towards an exit. A real man wasn't ruled by fear, he was ruled by his convictions. And in Yukio’s mind, God was telling him that what he was doing was the right thing.<o:p></o:p>
Against the wishes of his loyal servant and friend, Yukio would find himself, hours later, tracing the streets on the outskirts of town, the pristine white color of his coat making him stand out against his dark, dirty surroundings. He was practically asking to be bait for the more mischievous persons that lurked in the shadows. A cool shiver ran up his spine, as a hint of paranoia began to settle in. He glanced around him, and quickly turned, finding himself in an alley in back of some unused factory. A rich man striding along through these streets at night was a dead man walking.<o:p></o:p>
“’Ey, look what we got ‘ere!” A sudden, raspy voice caught Yukio off guard, and he found himself frozen in place. Before Yukio knew what hit him, there were five men that had thrown themselves at him, hands grabbing, hitting, tearing. “Get off of me!” Yukio shouted, struggling against the muggers that held him down. He was about to grab for one of his weapons, when he felt cold steel pressed against his throat. Not good. “We know what some well-dressed prick like you is doin’ here! ‘Bet you went and ‘vaporized’ some poor sod, didn't ye’?!” Yukio’s eyes were struck wide at the man’s words. How dare they?! Quickly, Yukio’s hands were set in motion, one gripping the blade-wielding wrist, and another slipping into his coat to retrieved one of his most prized possessions, a sawed-off, white, double-barreled shotgun. He swung it in an upward motion, striking the chin of the big-mouthed man. He jumped forward to get away from the other attackers, only for one of them to sneak a boot before his own, and tripping him. Son of a… “Do you really think I'm an Agent!?” Yukio skittered across the ground, managing to finally rise up to his feet, shotgun aimed, and his other one also removed from the hiding place of his coat. He kept one gun trained on that mealy-mouthed man, while the other was pointed in the direction of his other attackers.<o:p></o:p>
“My name is Tokugawa Yukio, the last of the Samurai royal bloodline. I am not, in any way, shape, or form, involved with the Government’s Agents.” Yukio paused to glance down at his outfit…wrinkled, torn, and dirty. He grimaced. He so hated to have his appearance tarnished! “How dare you attack me like that! Get a move on, or I'll blow holes in you wide enough to stick my hands through!” The more verbal of the bunch didn't move a muscle, until Yukio took an angered step towards him, finger stroking the trigger of his gun. A flash of animosity in those azure eyes, and Yukio’s hand was forced…in a sideways motion which struck the barrel of his gun against the man’s face. The man doubled over, stunned, before finding the will in him to speak.“This crazy son of a bitch is gonna shoot us because we got his clothes all dirty. You're just like the rest of ‘em! I hope you rot in Hell, you greedy fuck!” Yukio was seething at this point, eyes alive with a silent rage. The offending goons finally turned tail and ran ahead, leaving the stained and unhappy noble to hang his head, returning his guns back to his coat. Softly, he spoke to himself, aloud. “…And these are the people I risk my life for.”<o:p></o:p>
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Pale, bare hands were shoved within the confines of his jean pockets, head tipped back and piercing emerald eyes staring towards the heavens. He looked like a young man, entirely disenchanted by life, and this much was true. An exasperated sigh would leave his lips, before his head would come back down, eyes idly trailing the sidewalk before him. His jagged style of black strands rocked with each step he took. He was so overcome with a strong sense of boredom, as though nothing he could do would satisfy his need for the most important thing in life: To feel alive.<o:p></o:p>
The sun in that grayish sky was setting, causing an ominous overcast of reds and yellows. Yet this youth saw no beauty, nor horror in that setting sun. To him, it was merely a passing of time, another uneventful day nearing its end. He found some sort of relief in that notion, which was coupled by the sight of a nearing pub. Nothing like ending a dull day with some gin and the prospects of a bar brawl. Gabriel briefly smiled to himself as he approached the pub, hoping that the men inside were soon to be gravely intoxicated, with their tempers flaring and egos soaring. If Gabriel left that pub without letting his fists fly, he would be sorely disappointed.<o:p></o:p>
After opening the door and stepping inside, he’d scan over the populace of the pub. No one seemed to be hitting the booze too hard, just yet. He’d step up to the bar counter, taking a seat on one of the stools and motioning to the bar tender. “Give me whatever’s going to get me senseless the soonest.”
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Rill sat at what he thought was an inconspicuous corner of the bar, though it wasn’t that far from the bar’s front. Not that anywhere in the bar was, there wasn’t a lot of extra space in the room. He just sat there, looking down at his glass of syrah and taking the occasional sip. He was already tired, and was lost in thought as he often is. He had more students at his dojo than he should, given he was the only instructor. He shouldn’t have accepted so many, but he just couldn’t seem to say no. That was a character trait that had gotten him into a lot of trouble in the past, especially when it came to his awkward romantic life. He was somewhere between his romantic life and his early childhood when a sudden jolt both ripped him away from his daze, and caused him to spill his drink, leaving the pinkish color of a red wine stain on his white shirt. A few drops fell onto his pants as well, though the stain didn’t show nearly as apparent on his blue jeans. It seems while Rill was lost in thoughts over a single drink, some of the other patrons had drank a few more than they should have, and an especially loud one bumped his back into Rill while he was telling some manner of story. Rill frowned, but didn’t make anything of it. Hopefully he wouldn’t be bothered anymore, he would leave soon anyway. When he got home he could get out a little soap and hydrogen peroxide and hopefully get the stain out of his shirt. Unfortunately, this simply wasn’t the case. While the large man recited the names of the women he’d loved, and exactly how he’d loved them, his drunken attempts at acting the story out seemed to drive him against Rill again and again.
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“Please stop bumping into me.” Rill, finally annoyed enough to take action, had turned his head and spoke in the flat and commanding voice his students had all learned to fear. Unfortunately for Rill, and fortunately for this particular buffoon, these were not his students, and they didn’t follow his commands. The loud one picked him up by his collar, lifting his entire body several inches off the ground. “Donchu tellme…what to do you little shhhit!” He cocked back an arm and let a punch loose at Rill. Despite still being held in the air, he barely had to move to dodge the punch. The man was big, and very strong, but he was also drunk, stupid, and untrained. Rill could beat him easily, he could kill him in a few seconds if he wanted to. He could knock him and everyone listening to his story out cold before hitting the floor. He could probably kill every person in the room in less than a minute. That was exactly why he wasn’t going fight anyone, At least not if he could help it. “Let go of me, I’m not going to fight you.” He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted his way out of his grip. He didn’t even look back as he was walking away. Just as well, since someone stepped in front of his path to the exit anyway. It seemed the big man had friends here. Rill looked around the room. Out of the people in the bar there were 3 prepared to fight him. The man who had grabbed him was roughly the size of a small bear, and drunk off his ass. There was another man beside him, somewhat smaller, but still drunk. The man in front of him looked like he was going to be the most trouble. He was much skinnier than the other two, but he was also sickeningly tall, probably close to 6’5’’, and his arms had a lot of reach. If he was drunk he wasn’t showing it, Rill guessed he knew exactly what he was doing. Filthy sadist probably hung around the other two just so he could get chances to fight more often. It would be hard to get by him and to the door without hurting anyone. Rill’s mind raced, trying to find a solution that didn’t involve fighting…

"Three years today. It's been three years since they killed her. She was pregnant. Those monsters took my whole family. I served them so well and still they took them from me."

Daniel sat in his room alone. He spoke aloud as he remembered the moment his life was forever change. His body temperature began to rise just thinking about it. He tightened his hands into fists and stood up.

He could hear people outside. They belonged to the resistance as well. This small group of rebels lived in an underground community where the government could not find them. There were many different groups, but they were spread out all over. Most didn't even know the others existed. Daniel was one of ten people who knew how many groups were out there. The reason was because he and the nine others were the first to escape the governments trap. Now they go around establishing group after group. They all stayed in contact, keeping track of their numbers, but never revealing locations. The group Daniel was with now consisted of sixty people. It was almost time for him to move on.

There was a knock at his door.
Daniel immediately relaxed.
"Come in."

An older man came into the room. The look he gave Daniel told him the man was confused as to why he stood in the middle of his room in this manner.

"We are about to proceed with the mission Shadow . Will you be coming along?"

Very few people knew his real name. Daniel Carter was legally dead. At least to everyone's knowledge he was killed in a freak accident. Everyone knew him only as Shadow Demon.

"Yes. Thank you."

The Ministry of Love was quiet, as usual. It was hard to imagine, behind these sleek polished walls, hundreds of people suffered excruciating torture. If you weren't taken to Room 101 ( a chamber were you're worst fears were made manifest ), right away, you were made to sit in a tiny cell with only a single telescreen as your companion. You might be kept there for weeks, even months, perhaps years. What made it unbearable was the daily sessions where you were physically beaten. Five, usually six on one. Then you would be starved, turned into a corpse of what you used to be and finally, when you longed for death, you were taken to Room 101. Quiet! If you listen closely you might hear a faint cry, perhaps a pleading cry, filled with horror. Ah, you foolish, stupid people. If only you had followed the rules and gave your loyalty to your government - you could've lead a life of plenty. Big Brother understands you, he enfolds you in his arms - you need only give him your heart, your soul. Refuse him and you live in misery. There is no mercy to be had for dirty traitors. Raphael stood in the cell of one such ' criminal ' - a young man who he had been tailing for weeks, what you might call an insurgent, a terrorist, a disrupter of the public peace. The gentle rays of the morning sun did not quicken or still his unimaginable heart. Look. The man had already been beaten by low level guards, shamed and terrorized, and now he was shaking in a puddle of blood. He seemed as if he were close to fainting. Ah, but he couldn't just yet! Raphael moved down so that he was kneeling - The stench of sweat, vomit, it rose from the now motionless body at his feet. He felt absolutely nothing as he looked at it. Perhaps there was some beauty in the blood, which was now caked and drying, in the man's hair.

" Such a pity. "

Raphael whispered. His voice was soo soft! But it was, as always, a monotone. It was velvety, the voice of a guiding angel.

" What you might have been. Mr. Stephens, can you hear me? "

A gurgling sound was all the response Raphael would recieve. Raphael reached out with his right hand and curled his fingers into the matted hair, pulling the head up so that glazed eyes could settle on his face. " My - My wife, my child -- y - you haven-- "

" They were brought in just yesterday. You betrayed them. You sold them out for a chance to save your own life. You remember, do you not? "

Those blood red eyes were void of all sympathy - they were, in a sense, the eyes of a machine.

" Your wife's throat was cut this morning and your little girl, she was skinned alive and thrown to the dogs. No smile came upon Raphael's mouth. " There wasn't much left, but I was kind enough to bring you her remains. One last chance for a betrayer father to embrace his daughter. The daughter he put to death. "

Witin his other hand, Raphael held a blood stained bag and slowly he opened it and emptied out the bones, of the traitor's child, upon the man's head. Shredded meat still clung to them. The young man would toss the bag aside and walk out of the cell as his prisoner roared in agony. Casually he would remove the blood stained glove, from his left hand and toss it away. There was a faint splash of blood, against his left cheek, which he would wipe away with his other hand. He didn't chuckle like a comic opera devil or seem to rejoice in what he had done - he simply walked away, cold and detached from the horrifying display of cruelty he had thus exhibited. An hour later he would emerge from his office to see Seraphim returning. It was proper conduct to salute one's surperior officer and Seraphim was the first, the highest ranked Agent in the Ministry. Raphael would stand at the door leading into Seraphim's office.

" Ah, so you have returned. Victorious as always. How long did this one last? "

He was, of course, refering to the poor unforunate whom Seraphim was sent to vaporize. Thus he would wait patiently for an answer. Inhuman eyes met inhuman, drinking in each other - as they often did, since those days of dark childhood.

She smelled of stern perfume and sloppy sex. Her high heel boots clicked affirmitively against the pavement each footfall more of a strut, more of an act of defiance. Well manicured french tipped fingernails swooshed through the air popping in time with her hips like a metronome. Long blonde, seductive locks pristinely preserved with all the chique chemicals. She was a red light district dame dressed to the nines. And she was straddling confidance, and winning. From her pressed off-white blouse to her pinstriped short skirt and stockings, one hand clasping delicately to a briefcase, her bosom heaving from breathing air with purposeful lungs. A platinum blonde ambition, more than that, a success.

Shauna Cartridge watched blankly as her idol spun the revolving door into the government building. She peered seemlessly over her magazine as the goddess lifted a shining finger to signal the elevator. Shuddered solemnly as the blonde beauty tipped her head, flirted casually, punched lightly, giggled, and disappeared into the higher catacombs of the headquarters of 'Big Brother' himself. Images flitted through her head of life beyond the pearly gates of 'Big Brothers' wide open arms. She saw herself there, confident. She'd give anything to be that person.

The library anexing the 'Big Brother' HQ was open early hours and featured a wonderful coffee shop, plenty of reading material, and at 4 am it was the loneliest place on earth. Rows of bookshelves spooled off in all directions, a pair of comfy laz-y-boys sporatically dropped in for people needing to sit 'right now!' Obviously crafted to be ironic its banisters were bare, lighting hung on a grid exposed, clear glass windows unblemished by streaks and blinds. Shauna set down her magazine, People and none she would ever be, and straightened out her knee-length skirt tugging patiently at pieces of lent. She counted, 1...2...3... it was surprizing how comforting her fingers found the task. It kept her busy, made her look neat, calmed her nerves but best of all, she wouldn't have to think.

These days she was scared of her thoughts, there were the 'thought-police' of course, agents of 'Big Brother' who had the ability to invade thoughts. Some could control them, some could just read them, some were stronger still. None of that worried Shauna really, all they wanted was to get a handle on the rebellion. The rebels were something to be frightened of, they ruthlessly, senselessly harmed anyone and everyone in their path just to further their own selfish ambitions. But still none of that worried her, there was 'Big Brother'. Her eyes fluttered up to the small camera overhead, a deep pool of black lens protruding from a small white box, and the red light like a beacon in the dark. It was the red eye of the government, they were always watching. What scared her most, aside from all the people coming and going, the long away threat of war and the life inbetween. She'd do anything to avoid that life.

Her hands stopped their busy work and cupped her warm mug of coffee, she brought her lips to the rim and blew softly at the warm steam rising slowly into her face. She meticulously turned the cup until she found the imprint of her lipstick, then took a sip. The warmth filled her throat and slowly permeated through her body. The library was empty, she had taken great strides to insure that it would be. Every day she would wake up at 3:00 take the 3:45 trolley into town, then walk over to the library at 4:00 and wait for her office to open up at 6:00. No one on the streets, silence and safety, just her and the eye of BB and her silent prayer :

Please...for the love of God...

Watch over me.

The heavy minute hand resounded in a thick metallic clack, the sound shook through the library and Shauna was awoken from her brief daze. 5:45. Time to go to work before anyone else arrived. She grabbed for her purse then started to head for the door. The beautifully calm outside world waited devoid of others, it was a wonderful parody of her own situation. She was looking at the beautiful world, moving and bending and turning. And she was trapped in a glass prison surrounded by the maddening deafening roar of her own thoughts. The massive clock ticked away only instead of running forward it was running backward, counting down the time she had left, before...before...

Her fingers touched the glass, awoken again from her vivid thoughts but abruptly she was shocked to see someone outside the glass world. A tall figure standing stark against the pavement and stone, his mere presence contradicted the very steps to the ministry of love. A work of Escher in practice. He managed to place one firm boot on the bottom step before stopping abruptly. The man wore a stern look that shreiked of pain and anguish but as he seemed to spot lonely Shauna his grimace transformed into a freakishly soft smile.

One step ahead, one step ahead of me, the thought raced out without a chance to catch it. She raised a single hand to her lips, afraid that her unexpected gasps might be overheard, afraid that the figure might chance a look at the loud sucking and blowing of air. Then to her horror the figure turned, slowly pulling his whole face to hers. In her mind the distance closed between them, she felt a wash of white as dozens of birds took to the air, streaking to the sky in a blur. Her eyes passed from winged beast to winged beast, captivated in a furious sea of feathers, seeking shelter from their cries. Abruptly the ghostly visage of the birds lifted and all she could see was the deep red gaze of her possessor.