The Cruel Horizon

Beelzebub glances around the ruined room, a fleeting shadow of melancholy flickering across his features. "This part always gets me," he says, his gaze skimming over the lifeless forms in the room. "All this life, but in the end? So mundane." He sighs.

A slight gleam lights his eyes. "Though Santos did give me some strength," he muses, tapping his chin with a bloody finger. "Not much else worth absorbing here, at least not until…" His attention shifts to Emily's lifeless body.

...silence...

"Hmm. Perhaps a little more from her." He stoops, biting into her neck with a sudden ferocity, tearing flesh and swallowing with a wet, ugly sound. Closing his eyes, he savors the rush of stolen insight—his white locs brushing against bloodied skin as he rubs his stained hand through them.

"Tasty, actually," he mutters, voice muffled by the remains. "A wealth of knowledge… such interesting secrets in those monitors you had, dear Emily. Even I'm impressed." He looks up, scanning the dark screens around the room.

"Now," he continues quietly, stepping back from her corpse, "I have enough to move on to the next phase." With a small flourish, he extends a hand, palm upward, and begins reciting that eerie chant again:

"Nal'eshar, vosh ye... well, you get the idea."

Something stirs in the silence...

From each fallen body emerges a pale, silk-like substance. It oozes free of torsos, limbs, and once-human shapes in moist ribbons, creeping across the floor in sinuous lines. The strands curl toward Beelzebub's outstretched hand, sliding and slithering up into the air. They twist and coil around one another, converging in a faintly glowing orb that pulsates above his palm, beating softly like a newborn heart.

Beelzebub's eyes glimmer. "Almost there," he murmurs, gently rotating his wrist to watch the orb tremble and shiver. "Soon I'll reap souls directly—no more of this half measure." He gives an exaggerated shrug. "But until then, essence will have to do. Not as savory as a full soul, but it'll build my strength."

He flexes his fingers around the orb, feeling the white strands quiver. "All things in this world, short of the laws of life and death themselves, are made from this stuff." Then, without warning, he crushes the orb with a swift squeeze of his hand.

A splatter of shimmering droplets coats his palm and drips between his fingers. They soak into his skin like water into parched ground, disappearing almost instantly. Beelzebub closes his eyes, letting out a contented exhale.

"Mmm," he hums. "That's exactly what I needed." When he opens his eyes again, they blaze gold, brighter than before.

Beelzebub wanders down the hall, his feet squelching slightly with each step as they leave faint, dark-red footprints behind him.

He notices a door half ajar on one side of the corridor, the soft glow of flickering bulbs spilling out. "Another little nook," he murmurs. He reaches out, giving the door a light push. It opens with a muted creak, revealing very large room with arrays of scientific instruments...

...but Beelzebub turns to see a crowd of cowering figures in stained lab coats.

Dr. Briggs is at the forefront, knees nearly buckling as he steps toward Beelzebub, palms raised in supplication. "Please, I—I can tell you anything you want," Briggs stammers, words tumbling out in a rush. "All the data, all the codes. Every experiment, every subject. Just let me—"

Behind him, Dr. Chen lurks closer to the wall, shoulders pressed to the plaster as if he wants to melt away. Beelzebub glances at the scientist's trembling.

"Easy there," Beelzebub drawls, lifting both palms. "Let's not fall all over ourselves, hm?" His voice is teasing.

Dr. Briggs's mouth opens again, more pleas on the tip of his tongue, but his words stall when Beelzebub winks. "Now, now. No need for that." The child steps into the room, stepping over a toppled chair and a puddle of spilled chemicals. "You see, I'm feeling... magnanimous."

From the back, Dr. Chen tries to edge sideways, boots squeaking softly. His breathing comes in ragged puffs. The flicker of the lights plays over his face, showing the sheen of cold sweat on his brow. Another scientist, huddled on the floor, rubs frantic circles on their temples, eyes squeezed shut.

Beelzebub exhales dramatically. "Alright, alright," he concedes with a dismissive wave of his hand, turning his attention back to the group. "Your performance here isn't exactly inspiring, I must say. But I'm feeling generous enough to let you all scurry away."

A shaky murmur of disbelief spreads through the room. Beelzebub spreads his arms wide in a theatrical flourish. "Go on," he urges, his grin brightening. "You're free, all of you. Scoot. Run. Pray to your sweet gods outside this building, if it pleases you."

Dr. Briggs blinks rapidly. "We… we can just—leave?"

Beelzebub steps to the side with a good-natured shrug. "What can I say? I'm a saint." He offers a small, mocking bow, motioning to the corridor.

"After you..."

…

Crowe sits in his chair, the faint glow from the orb beneath his desk casting long, trembling shadows over his sharp features. Sweat begins to bead along his temple, and his fingers tighten around the smooth surface of the orb as the sound of distant screams reaches him...

...Each shriek...

He takes a slow breath, shutting his eyes. The frantic cries are replaced by an eerie silence. His lips twitch at the corner, a grim smile creeping across his face.

"Quite unfortunate indeed," he mutters.

Before he can regain his composure, the reinforced doors of his office slam open, a violent force scattering debris across the room. Papers fly, and dust fills the air, the sound of the doors slamming into the walls reverberating through the space. Crowe's eyes snap to the doorway, his posture stiffening as he watches the figure step into the room—#13.

The child strides forward. Crowe's lips curl into a slow smirk, his gaze never leaving the figure.

"Ah, #13," he says. "So this is the damn thing that was inside you."

A low chuckle escapes him, the sound echoing in the small office like a sinister lullaby. He leans forward, studying the child. "I suppose Santos was the one who freed you," he continues, his words almost amused, though tinged with an underlying resentment. He gestures vaguely around the room. "Quite the mess he's made, hasn't he? Can't say I'm surprised though."

The child stops, standing tall. Crowe studies the way #13's eyes flick over the room, before finally turning back to him.

"Tell me, what name do you go by?" Crowe asks.

#13's lips curl into a sly, small smile. "You may call me Baʿal Zebub," he replies. "Or Beelzebub, if you prefer."

Beelzebub tilts his head slightly at this. "But I must admit," he continues, "I've always preferred the simpler name."

Crowe's fingers tap lightly erratically on the desk on the desk...

Beelzebub's smile widens. "You know," he says, "it's a pity. We could have learned so much from each other. But then, I suppose we never truly walked the same road, did we?"

He continues...

"What's the point, Commander? You've spent so long preserving humanity. But tell me this—what have your efforts really amounted to?"

Crowe's expression calms. He shifts his weight in the chair, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What you fail to grasp, Beelzebub, is that we do not act for the individual. We act for the collective." His voice hardens. "The survival of humanity demands tough choices—ruthless decisions. We cannot afford sentimentality when lives are at stake."

His hand rests on the desk now. "Once you abandon humanity, once you forsake it, you lose the right to be part of it. You become... something else."

Beelzebub's golden eyes flash, his gaze locking onto Crowe's.

"You speak of sacrifice, Commander," he says.

"But how much more are you willing to destroy for this ideal? How much more blood will spill before you realize..." Beelzebub pauses, "It's all for nothing?"

Crowe's jaw tightens. "No," he growls, his voice low. "I will not accept that. Even if the odds are stacked against us, we continue to fight. We strive to protect what remains of humanity—of what it could be." He leans forward, his eyes not leaving Beelzebub's, his voice rising. "Without the will to act, we lose everything. And that's something I will never give up on."

Beelzebub's lips curl into a playful grin, his eyes dancing with amusement as he step closer. "Such conviction," he says admiration. "Admirable, really. But tell me, Commander," Beelzebub's voice drops, "what will you do when that conviction proves futile?"

Crowe's lips curl into a smirk, his gaze steady. "Then I'll die trying..." he pauses,...

...'cause that's what it means to be human."

Beelzebub chuckles lowly. "I'm afraid you won't get the chance," he says.

"Do you have any last words, Commander?" Beelzebub asks, the curiosity laced with mockery.

Crowe smirks...

"Go to hell."

Beelzebub's grin stretches wider as he raises his hand. "Already there," he says lightly, before flicking his wrist with a fluid motion.

The sound of bone cracking and brain splattering fills the air. Crowe's head bursts, splattering the surrounding surfaces with blood and bone.

Beelzebub crosses the room, his wet feet crunching over the scattered papers and debris. As he approaches the desk, he pauses, extending his palm toward Crowe's remains. A faint, crackling sound breaks the stillness as Essence begins to rise from the broken body, swirling and converging into his hand. The energy thrums as it fills him, and Beelzebub's eyelids flutter shut in satisfaction, his chest rising with a small, contented sigh.

"Delicious," he murmurs, his voice low, savoring the power as it surges through him.

He glances down at Crowe's body, a faint chuckle escaping his lips as he steps closer, inspecting the remnants. "Well, that was easy," Beelzebub mutters.

His eyes fall on the commander's lifeless hand, still clutching something in a tight grip. Beelzebub bends down, effortlessly prying the orb free, twisting the cold, smooth surface between his fingers. He raises it to the light, examining it.

"Wow. They actually had this," he says. His eyes flick over the orb once more, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I wonder how they got a catalyst," he muses aloud, tapping the orb against his palm. "Most would sell their soul for this."

There's no hesitation as he squeezes the orb in his grip. A soft pop echoes in the room, followed by the crackling of energy escaping from the shattered remnants. The raw Essence flows from the orb, swirling in the air before sinking into his skin.

With a satisfied sigh he turns his attention back to the desk. Beelzebub's eyes fall on a framed photograph, the glass catching the low light as he lifts it. He inspects the image. "So this is Elias..." he muses aloud as he examines the young child in the picture. "Isn't that cute," he adds with a smirk, tracing his thumb along the edges of the frame. "A family man, huh?"

...his eyes roll back as he searches what he's obtained...

"And there's only one woman worth mentioning in Crowe's memories..." His voice drops, becoming more contemplative as he turns the photo over in his hands, inspecting the back briefly. "Anna Zola," he says. "The mother of this little shit."

A soft chuckle escapes him as he flips the photo back to face him. He traces the image's edge, the soft touch of his fingers almost affectionate, though the smile on his face is anything but.

Then, without warning, the photograph catches fire. The flames curl around the edges of the frame with a sudden ferocity, the paper crackling as the fire consumes it. Beelzebub watches as it disintegrates in his hands.

The last remnants of the photograph drift through his fingers, scattering into the air like dust. He flicks his wrist once, and the ashes vanish. The light from the fire flickers off his face...

"Not so sentimental now, are we?" he says lightly.

He pauses for a moment, watching the faint wisp of smoke trail into the air before letting out a soft sigh. The room seems to settle.

With a subtle wave of his hand, he whispers a quiet incantation: "Kathra zenuviel darosh."

In an instant, his form ripples, the air around him distorting. His body dissolves into a dense black mist.

He seems to sink into the shadows, meshing with the walls...

...escaping into the night...