Metalocalypse: Impending Doom

Chapter Twenty: The Transition

The blackness was engulfing them with feelings they had been repressing for far too long. The memories of someone that wasn't them, the memories of their true selves, only a shadow of everyone else, haunted them until all they could see were splashes of red on black canvas, and tunnel vision toward unhealthy obsessions. Like hatred.

They felt entirely justified in their cruelness, their crocodile tears a facade of their true selves. Which was that of an embarrassed, empty hollow shell, tasting the sweet tears of everyone's pain, only recoiling from raised haunches and bared teeth, just to come back in with their own claws when all was safe.

But would this be the time they couldn't bounce back? Had they gotten too brave, too eager, for a taste of the anguish? The wound was deep, deeper than normal.

It wasn't the first time falling into the pit of seductive sadism, with the blood on their hands from another time that they had ventured too far into the territory of another's. Knives glinted strangely in the pitch darkness, and a pale finger dragged itself up and down the tip lazily. Perhaps the only way to survive this was to resort to old measures.

Fuck them all. Fuck them for their validation seeking, broken souls. Fuck them for their lack of reciprocation. Fuck the ones for feeling too much, fuck the ones for not feeling enough. And most of all, fuck the empty shell of another who still felt more than they ever could. How could the powers transfer to each other in this way? Why were they stuck with the empty soul, and the other was left with the guilt like they also had one?

This wasn't the thoughts of just one but multiple. The screams of tortured, black spirits could feel the growing anger in their hearts as the moon slowly moved closer toward the blood eclipse.

They could only consider this a betrayal, and it had to be dealt with.

~~~

"You fool," a smug, delighted voice whispered in Murderface's head, causing him to flinch, though he tried his best to ignore the sound. "How could you let this happen? Your own friend jumped in front of you..."

"Schut up!" Murderface growled as the vision replayed vividly in his head, and he shook it to try and shut the scene out. The voice laughed quietly.

"Don't pretend like you didn't feel a surge of power when you looked down at his lifeless body," The voice cooed sweetly in his ear, which caused the hair on the back of his neck and arms to stand up straight. The demon-thing wasn't wrong, Murderface did feel a certain rush when seeing Pickles fly through the air before landing on his head. But it was gone within a second, replaced only by horror.

He had never wanted this before in his life. He never wanted his friends, coworkers, whatever- to die. How many times had he put his life on the line against strange happenings around them, to help them out? Even doing just the bare minimum of not getting in the way? He wasn't himself anymore. He was cold, hateful, mean, but he wasn't to this level. He was vindictive and cunning and loved to mess with people, he was very high and mighty, and he felt powerful in his abilities to give someone a good shake, but death? The wounded, broken look on Pickles's face haunted him, it was the look of giving up. A look he knew all too well. A look that choked his throat.

Damnit, why couldn't Pickles just fight back? Why couldn't he get pissed off, throw something, scream, punch people into his place? Why did things just have to go so wrong? Why did it take this long for Murderface to feel the full effects of his guilt? Was it even guilt, or just shame? Was the demon inside of him not only making him do these cruel things behind their back, but also making him feel more than he's probably ever felt- not just for himself, but for everyone else too? And then purposely setting him up to take the fall after the fact? Or was he being forced to feel that little bit of satisfaction that was causing bile to rise in his throat?