04/06/2012, Underworld, Late Night
Azazel materialized in his private chambers within the Grigori headquarters, the teleportation residue flickering out like dying embers. He leaned heavily against the obsidian wall, the polished stone cool against his forehead.
The weight of the Cadre meeting, the impossible revelation about Makoto Yuki, and the gnawing dread about Kokabiel and the Khaos Brigade pressed down on him like a massive weight.
"You look worse than usual, Azazel." A cool, familiar voice sliced through the gloom. Vali Lucifer leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, his crimson eyes sharp and assessing.
His white hair seemed almost luminous in the dim light. "Did you finally pick a fight you couldn't win with booze?"
"Is it that obvious?" Azazel retorted, pushing himself upright with a weary grunt. He attempted his usual sardonic smirk, but it felt brittle, unconvincing.
Vali pushed off the wall, closing the distance in two silent strides. He stopped mere inches from the Fallen Angel Governor, his gaze intense, demanding.
"Tell me," he commanded, his voice low but laced with steel.
"No, Vali," Azazel refused, meeting the young man's stare. The weight of secrets—the Messiah, the prophecy, the potential cataclysm—felt like a stone in his chest. "This isn't something I can share. Not yet at least."
Vali's nostrils flared slightly. He recognized the rare, absolute finality in Azazel's tone, but it only fueled his frustration. "Fine. Change the subject, then," he snapped, stepping back, his posture radiating irritation.
"Any news on my mission? Or are you too preoccupied with whatever has you looking like death warmed over?"
Azazel clenched his jaw, a subtle tension Vali didn't miss. "No," he admitted, forcing his voice level. "The Khaos Brigade idiots seem to be developing rudimentary intelligence. They're growing suspicious of my 'loyal' agent. Doubting his cover. And worse… they seem to be getting stronger. More organized."
Vali snorted. "Annoying, but manageable. They're still cockroaches scrambling in the dark." He paused, studying Azazel's face again, the tightness around his eyes, the pallor beneath his usual tan.
"Azazel…" Vali's voice lost its edge, replaced by a flicker of something akin to concern, quickly masked by impatience. "Tell me what's happening."
Azazel sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "Vali… I've had… a profoundly difficult day. Just listen to me for now. Stay safe. With the Brigade doubting you, the risk is exponentially higher. I need you to stand down from active infiltration. Immediately. Stop the mission. I know it's against your nature, but… lie low. Regroup. For a while."
The uncharacteristic plea, the raw worry underlying the order, gave Vali pause. He saw the genuine strain etched on Azazel's face, a vulnerability he rarely witnessed.
"Fine," Vali conceded after a tense moment, the word clipped. "I'll go find someone to spar with. Maybe pounding Bikou's face in will distract me from whatever foolery has you spooked." He turned towards the door, his white coat swirling.
He paused on the threshold, looking back, his crimson eyes burning with a promise. "But you will tell me everything. Are we clear?"
Azazel simply nodded, the movement weary. "Clear."
Vali vanished, leaving Azazel alone in the oppressive silence. 'I want to protect you, Vali,' the thought echoed desperately in his mind.
'If the Khaos Brigade is truly suspicious, if they've gained power… especially with the kid involved…'
A surge of helpless rage overwhelmed him. He slammed his fist onto a nearby obsidian table. The ancient, magically reinforced stone cracked like cheap plaster, sending a priceless Grecian vase tumbling to shatter on the floor in a spray of ceramic dust.
'What does it mean, Father? This burden… this boy…'
The image of Makoto Yuki's calm, sorrowful eyes superimposed itself over the wreckage. There was no time for despair. "I need to go to Kuoh. Now." He focused his power, weaving a complex teleportation circle beneath his feet, the sigils blazing with azure light before consuming him.
04/06/2012, Kuoh Church, Evening.
Reality snapped back into focus with a disorienting lurch. Instead of the discreet apartment he'd purchased near Kuoh Academy, Azazel found himself standing amidst crumbling pews and dust motes dancing in the fractured moonlight filtering through stained-glass windows depicting various saints.
The air hung thick with the scent of mildew, decay, and lingering incense gone sour. 'Damn it! I missed the coordinates, how low coming from you Azazel! Of all places… this forsaken church.' He grimaced, surveying the desolate sanctuary.
'Well, at least I'm in the city. It's dusk already… best to wait for dawn before approaching the boy discreetly.' He turned towards the heavy, rotting doors.
"Look who's trying to play the repentant prodigal son." The voice was distorted, a guttural whisper layered with mocking echoes, seeming to emanate from the very shadows clinging to the altar.
Azazel froze, every sense snapping to high alert. His gaze locked onto a figure standing before the ruined altar, back turned. It was cloaked in darkness, yet impossible to miss: twelve immense, obsidian-feathered wings, ragged and shimmering with unnatural malice, were folded behind it.
'A Fallen? Twelve wings? But… I know every Cadre, every notable Fallen. This presence… it's alien. Wrong.'
"Yes! A Fallen Angel," the figure hissed, its voice seeming to crawl inside Azazel's skull, confirming his unspoken thought. "One you know… intimately." It slowly pivoted, the tattered cloak swirling like smoke.
Azazel instinctively took a cautious step forward, a strange mixture of professional concern and deep-seated empathy warring within him. This scene—a lost soul seeking solace or damnation in an abandoned house of worship—was tragically familiar.
He'd witnessed it countless times after the Fall: the broken, the despairing, drawn to the hollow shells of faith, only to meet brutal ends at the hands of Angels, Exorcists, or their own shattered minds.
"Twelve wings… are you a recent Fall?" Azazel asked, his voice carefully neutral, projecting calm authority. "Your voice… I don't recognize it. Come with me. Let Grigori help you. You don't have to face this alone."
"Always the savior of your wretched kind," the figure sneered, the distortion twisting into cruel amusement. "It would be honorable… if it weren't so utterly hypocritical." It completed its turn, the hood falling back.
Azazel's breath hitched. Staring back at him was his own face. But it was a grotesque caricature. The familiar features were twisted by a manic, cruel intelligence, the eyes burning with sickly yellow light devoid of any warmth or sanity. It was him, yet fundamentally other.
"Who are you?" Azazel demanded, his voice hardening into ice. In a flash of dark energy, Down Fall Dragon Spear materialized in his grasp, the artificial Sacred Gear humming with contained power. The spearhead, forged from a pact with the dragon king Fafnir, glinted wickedly in the gloom.
"My name is Azazel," the shadow declared, spreading its twelve wings slightly, the feathers rustling like dry bones. "Azazel. I am you."
"Bullshit," Azazel spat, leveling the spear, his golden eyes narrowed to slits. The air crackled with tension.
"Why so cold… to yourself?" the shadow taunted, taking a deliberate step closer, its yellow gaze boring into him. "Ah, right! I almost forgot our eternal, pathetic need for perfection! The flawless Governor! The brilliant scientist! The disappointed son!"
"What are you babbling about?" Azazel growled, his knuckles white on the spear's haft. The shadow's proximity sent shivers down his spine that had nothing to do with cold.
"You really think these… toys," the shadow gestured contemptuously at Down Fall Dragon Spear, "crafted in your desperate, childish hope of understanding our Mighty Daddy's genius… can help you now?"
It took another step, the distance between them vanishing. Azazel could smell the ozone and decay rolling off it. "Sacred Gears! Oh, how I adore them!"
The shadow's voice dripped with sarcastic reverence.
"They are such perfect little echoes of Daddy's brilliance! Especially the Longinuses! The pinnacle! If only I could create one… wouldn't Daddy be so proud?" Its face crumpled into a mockery of grief. "Oh… wait… Daddy's gone. Because of us."
"No!" Azazel roared, the denial ripped from him. "I research Sacred Gears for knowledge! For understanding! For Grigori's future! Not for… not for that!" He thrust the spear forward, the point halting inches from the shadow's chest.
"Then why raise Vali like a son?" the shadow hissed, its yellow eyes blazing. "Weren't you just fascinated by his shiny Divine Dividing? Admit it, Azazel! In the twisted labyrinth of your mind, you're just playing house, desperately trying to mimic Father Almighty! You crave His role! His love!"
The shadow leaned closer, its breath like tomb air.
"I know the true reason we Fell. It wasn't love for some mortal woman. That's the pretty lie you tell yourself. When Lucifer rebelled… we saw our chance. We thought… maybe… we could finally step out of his shadow. Become Father's favorite." A low, grating chuckle escaped its lips.
"SHUT UP!" Azazel bellowed, the spear trembling in his grip. The words struck like poisoned barbs, finding cracks in armor he thought impregnable.
"You wonder how I know the filthy truth festering in your heart?" The shadow's grin widened impossibly, revealing needle-sharp teeth. "I am you, Azazel!" Its voice rose to a shriek.
"I loved Father! I worshipped Him! I wanted to be Him! I made Helel Fall! I poisoned his mind with whispers of ambition, stoked his envy! I was jealous! IT WAS ALL MY FAULT! The Great War! Daddy's death! The ruin of Heaven! It began with ME! I, AZAZEL, AM THE TRUE BETRAYER! I AM THE DAMNED ONE!"
"NO! LIES! HOW DARE YOU!?" Azazel screamed, raw anguish and fury tearing through him. He lunged, Down Fall Dragon Spear aimed at the shadow's heart. "YOU ARE NOT ME!"
The shadow threw back its head and laughed—a sound like shattering glass and tearing metal. As Azazel's spear thrust passed harmlessly through its suddenly insubstantial form, the shadow began to change.
The twelve black wings writhed, multiplied, sprouting from its back in a horrifying, cancerous bloom. Feathers darkened to pure, light-swallowing void.
The cloaked figure swelled, distorting, the fabric shredding as the mass of wings expanded with terrifying speed, pressing against the church's ancient stone walls. Cracks spiderwebbed across the vaulted ceiling, dust and debris raining down.
Azazel stumbled back, transfixed by the monstrous metamorphosis. A primal terror, deeper than any battlefield fear, rooted him to the spot. His muscles locked; his mind screamed commands his body refused to obey.
'Move! FIGHT! Why can't I MOVE!?' He was paralyzed, a spectator to his own nightmare made flesh. From the seething mass of wings, a colossal, pale face emerged—a grotesque, distorted parody of his own features, scaled up to monstrous proportions. Its eyes were sightless pits.
It opened its cavernous maw, a void darker than the wings, and from within that darkness, dozens of skeletal, multi-jointed arms erupted, clawing at the air, tearing at the crumbling walls. The sight was an abomination, a blasphemy against form.
"I AM SHADOW! THE TRUE SELF!" The declaration boomed, not from the mouth, but from everywhere at once—a psychic assault amplified by a thousand tiny, lipless mouths that bloomed like grotesque flowers along the flailing arms.
The sonic wave shattered the remaining stained glass, raining colored shards onto the desecrated floor.