Irvine blinks, looks baffled. Honestly, this isn't what he pictured Death would sound like. Less divine trumpet, more angry life coach.
But weirdly enough, something inside him steadies, and his heart slows. The words hit somewhere deeper than reason.
"I… I can't die here…"
One of the White Fangs growls and lunges. There's no time to reflect, so he runs.
He skids to a stop, turn, and runs.
Glances over his shoulder, stumbles, and runs again.
"Shit! What do I do now?!"
<< Just keep running until you find someone! >>
"You're still with me?"
<< Of course! >>
"Then YOU'RE that someone!"
<< I'd love to help, but I'm a bit… tied up at the moment. >>
"Can't you just zap them or something?!"
Irvine scrambles into the ruins of a collapsed brothel, diving under a fractured beam and crouching behind the half-hinged door of what used to be someone's fantasy suite.
"Please," he whispers, clutching something near his chest. "Just take their souls. Send them off to the next world."
<< Can't do that! By the way… what's that in your hands? >>
Irvine looks down, and turns pale. Turns out he's been clutching an old, grimy dildo, one of the many sad, sad relics of this forgotten district, regret in rubber form.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
He throws it away in horror, and immediately drops into a full prostration.
"Forgive my rudeness! Please, just… smite them! I beg you!"
<< That's not how it works! >>
<< Something needs to kill them first. Then I collect the souls. Or God gives me direct orders. Until then, I don't get involved. It's the protocol. >>
"Then what am I supposed to do?!"
<< Not prostrate to me, for starters. That's heresy. >>
A window suddenly shatters nearby. One of the White Fangs lands inside the room, claws raking across the floor. More follow, one by one, slipping through the dark like death itself.
Without thinking much, Irvine bolts again, smashing through the opposite door and leaping down a half-collapsed hallway.
"This is bullshit! I thought Angels of Death were supposed to be cool!"
<< Excuse me! I could tear this world in half with a flick of my wing. But I'm a loyal servant of God. I don't act outside my command. >>
"God?!" Irvine pants, feet slipping on rubble as he runs. "You're seriously bringing God into this? God is just a myth, the most stupid one human ever think about."
<< Nope! God does exist. Look around you. There are so many signs of… >>
"Bullshit! Where was He when my life went to hell?! If he does exist, why would he create this shitty world to live?"
<< Watch your tongue, boy! You don't understand His wisdom! You're too young to question it! >>
Irvine turns sharply into another ruined brothel, hoping for a place to hide. But something leaps out of the shadows, and he can't do anything but welcome it with an open arms.
Sadly, it isn't a desperate woman seeking rescue. It's a beast, claws first, snarling.
"Grrr!!!"
A White Fang tackles him to the floor, claws pinning his shoulders. Its breath scalds his face as its jaws sink into his right shoulder.
<< Consider this a warning from God. >>
Irvine screams, raw, ragged, all pain and terror. Driven by pain and fury, he seizes the beast's head with one hand and pounds with the other one, over and over, each blow fueled by blood, tears, and blind desperation.
"Enough talk about your goddamn God!"
He roars, voice cracking under the weight of rage.
"If I can't even cry out… can't even question…. then what the hell does God matter to me?!"
Unfortunately, his retaliation proves about as effective as trying to keep a wet string erected. The beast doesn't even flinch.
Just the sound of it gnawing at his shoulder is enough to scramble his brain into a smoothie pulp. It shakes its massive head once, and that's all it takes. A clean chunk of flesh tears away with a wet snap.
Zrssh!!!
"Ackh…"
The boy lets out a short, pitiful groan.
The pain is unbearable. His brain makes an executive decision: too much trauma for one day, better to check out early and let death handle the paperwork.
But oblivion doesn't last. Moments later, a sharp jolt suddenly runs through the beast. It senses something else now, something it can't see, but instinctively fears.
Its head jerks up, ears twitching, nostrils flaring wide. Something in the air has changed. The scent has shifted, and the pressure has deepened.
Then, a flicker of white light pulses behind Irvine's eyes. Whatever's inside the boy, it isn't just human anymore. Something ancient has arrived.
And the beast knows it isn't the predator anymore. It suddenly seems unsure. It snarls, then barks straight into Irvine's face, like a dog that just realized it's been chewing on a wasp nest.
Then, completely by accident, the boy's pinky brushes against something cold and metallic on the floor, and a thin arc of lightning hisses between his fingers.
Tssssk!
The sound bites through the air, like dry leaves catching fire.
His muscles tighten. His instincts rise to the surface. In that heartbeat of chaos, something within the foreign soul inside him makes a decision.
He doesn't need to look at the metallic object. His hand clamps around it, and with a sudden surge, a bolt of spirit-born energy pours into the metal.
Krrrrck!
Electricity dances down the weapon in jagged pulses. It comes not from wires or circuits, but from the burning reservoir of force locked within him.
Jlbs!
He drives the weapon upward into the beast's chest.
"Kaing…!!!"
Blood follows, slow but hot.
It's a broken crowbar, rusted and blunt, useless on its own. But now, it's warm to the touch, humming faintly with the ghost of the current that just tore through it. The beast doesn't know what hit it, only that something sacred and furious has entered the fight.
He rips the crowbar free and….
Jlbs!
"No free dinner for you tonight," he mutters.
His voice has gone back to flat and cold, disturbingly calm for someone elbow-deep in monster guts. One stab turns into two, then five. The beast's chest becomes a patch of minced meat under a storm of violence.
Blood splashes the walls, the floor, the boy's face. It paints the scene like a performance art piece titled 'Therapy Session from Hell.'
The beast is still on top of him, claws buried in his shoulder, but the boy doesn't hesitate. He bites into its neck—because apparently, stabbing isn't personal enough—and drives the crowbar back into the gash like the thing just insulted his mother.
This isn't Irvine Donovan anymore. He's never fought like this, never snapped like this. Whatever has taken hold of him now is more prepared to go down swinging.
"There's no way I'm letting a glorified dog beat me."
The stabbing doesn't stop until the creature finally slumps lifeless on him. Breathing hard, he shoves the dead body aside, with the crowbar stays firmly in his grip.
His left shoulder is a mess, ragged, torn, and oozing, but healing. It's slow, no dramatic regeneration, no instant patchwork. The wound closes at a sluggish pace, like even his own body is exhausted from the ordeal.
"Sigh... How am I supposed to fight a Nephilim with a shoulder that lost a fight to a small dog?"
Using his good arm, he pushes himself up. He stands like a zombie that caught the sound of ice cream truck passing by.
The crowbar dangles in his grip, still humming faintly with leftover lightning energy. Around him, the pack of White Fangs watches from the shadows, their snarls now tinged with something else, caution.
He turns slowly and faces them, eyes locked as if daring the dogs to move. For a moment, he looks ready for another kill, like the fight hasn't left his blood yet.
But then, something shifts. A flicker of confusion crosses his face.
"…God, my vision's going fuzzy."
His legs tremble.
But then, the lightning returns, faint but visible, wrapping around the crowbar like a warning sign.
"What are you looking at? Come and fight me if you dare."
A pressure hangs in the air. The beasts flinch. Some snarl louder. A few of them step back.
They see the crowbar still drips steadily, blood is still flowing. Whatever they've seen, it's enough.
The pack begins to back away, one by one, until the shadows reclaim them entirely. The street falls silent once more.
"Smart move. You better leave before I kill you too."
That's what he says. Soon, he collapses again, this time without the beast on top of him.
Still, his body refuses to let him pass out completely. Pain keeps him pinned to reality, throbbing like a bad pop song stuck in his head.
Sleep would be nice, but the agony makes sure he doesn't get too comfortable.
"Tch! So much for a quick-start mode."