Pyre's Blight

One

"YOU BASTARD!"

This wasn't the first time Onyx had been in some sort of a scuffle, but it may just be the last. Sparks flew across the room, a new scar engraved into his pyre arm.

Onyx was an Angel of Duty, tasked with aiding humanity in their struggles in order to make them believe the late god Lucien still existed. She did not.
He never expected having his pyre—the tools Angels of Duty used to help them help humanity—to be detrimental to his missions. If anything, it wasn't a con at all. Having an arm with artificial strength, gaining sympathy from the ignorant humans, and a pyre that didn't get in the way of anything, there were practically no cons.
But this encounter proved his theories wrong.

"You are but a puppet strung along by those selfish, hypocritical gods, used only to keep their pathetic ruse up." His assailant spat bitterly, walking towards Onyx with an ice pick in hand. His dark suit added a layer of camouflage to him in the already dark room, leaving Onyx to rely on the reflections of silver embroidery in his suit jacket and the metallic glint of the ice pick to judge where the man was. "Don't you get tired of them? Don't you get tired at all?"

"I do my work because that is what Lord Lucien would have wanted, something you obviously could not understand." Onyx glared, wiping blood from a scratch on his chin. If anything, he probably made the smudge worse. He stood crouched in the shadows, his pyred arm revealing claws at the fingertips.

The man simply clicked his tongue, disappointed, "What a shame. That was what the last one had said."

The two were inside an empty observatory, the stars shining through the open roof overhead, granting enough light to allow the two men inside to see.
Originally, Onyx had been sent down to aid a human with his family issues, a problem of betrayal and money like most of the cases he got. Yet it had seemed the family dealt with a kind of people Onyx saw rarely, and so ensued an encounter he would try to avoid at all costs.
He didn't know this man, but apparently, the man knew him. And this man wanted his pyre.

But...

"The last one? There... were others?"

The man huffed, an almost pitying smile touching his face, "They really don't tell you anything, don't they?"

Realization struck him, suddenly. Onyx had to run, he had to run and tell his general and head of duty and Cicillian, for heaven's sake, that he had found him.
He had found him.
Marchosias.
Fear and adrenaline stroked the fire in his veins as he truly realized the situation he was in. The door was just to the left of him, and if he could get out..
"Your crimes will not go unpunished, Snake." Onyx glared, just before sprinting over to the door, leaving his assailant surprised, in the dust.
Yet it seemed like the bewilderment had worn off as quickly as it came, as Marchosias simply strolled toward him, brandishing his pick.
It mattered little to Onyx, as in just a few seconds, he would be free and that criminal would be dealt with. He reached the doors, pulled at the handles, and was met with a hollow click.
Marchosias was getting closer. He tried pushing this time, but the same click resonated throughout the building.

The door was locked.

Onyx's stomach sunk, heavy and overwhelming, as he began to process the fact that the door was locked. The door was locked. The door was locked, and he was stuck inside with a monster. He tried rattling the handle again, but it snapped off from the socket, now useless.
He turned around just as a fist collided with the side of his head, sending him stumbling to the right, dizzy. He attempted to strike back with his pyred arm, yet was met with a foot to the stomach, sending him to the ground.
Onyx felt like vomiting as he groaned in pain, head hitting the wall behind him. Marchosias crouched down over him, graceful almost, as he gripped the angel's face, "You think as if I hadn't hours before. That is one of many things that separates you from I," he brought his face close, their foreheads nearly touching, "I know the future. You, do not."
Just as the man was about to bring his bloodied ice pick down into his heart, Onyx clawed the side of his cheek with his pyred arm. The man relinquished his hold from the angel's face, screaming in pain as blood dripped down onto his expensive suit.
Onyx scrambled from underneath the man, the wolf in dog's clothing, stumbling to the center of the room. If he were to fight, then he would rather do so bathed in the light of the moon.
The wolf soon rose, brushing off imaginary dirt from his velvet black suit, turning to face him, "You are prolonging the inevitable."