"No Life 'Til Leather"

"Hit The Lights"

Andy’s always had a bit of a strange habit. Some would call it bad, others would think nothing of it, as it seemed harmless enough. Harmless to any outsiders who’ve never taken a gander into the fine confinements of the boy’s tiny skull. The very same instrument that worked overtime every day and night, ran like a precise freight-railway station that sorted, packaged and sent out little trains of thoughts which later would always derail, crash, and burn, lining the gray thinking-mass with clouds of smoke and walls of fire. Back on track. The habit itself relied mostly on the boy’s inability to find peace in living on his own. It relied on his need to rely. To survive and push him further, he needed encouragement and a person by his side who would be willing to provide just that. It never mattered what caliber of person it was, be it a hyperactive, red-headed childhood crush or a sadistic, captive-slaughtering, white-haired maniac. Andy would always get too attached and then hurt when it was time to say bye-bye.

No such time came that day, however, as the boy found himself running for his dear life, running through the mud-soaked ruins of Kazdel. Running away from the bunker, from the piles of slaughtered angels and devils, the battlefield where both heaven and hell decided to finally settle their differences with steel and brass, ori-powder and concentrated arts-juice. With each of his footsteps came a loud splatter of dirt and mud, each mindlessly spraying in their own direction without a single thought behind the act. Some would stain the boy’s cargos, which, mind you, were a size or two too large and presented quite a wide canvas to cover in brownish-gray. He truly did not mind. 

The only thing that remained inside his head and stood out from the raging sea of worry was the need to find his comrades. Just his two, incredibly impassive and indifferent devil comrades, who had probably already moved on from today’s events. Who would’ve thought, right? W, the ever so lively firework of a guy, a true maestro of his craft, how could he have ever gone down? The man who played Kazdel like an incredibly loud and annoyingly distorted electric guitar, the devilish bounty hunter with a heart oozing pure, black tar. At least he died doing what he truly loved, though. That tiny thought kept Andy’s tattered mind from boiling over and spilling all over the gray mud in a very crimson fashion - the thought that W died truly living, killing as many Laterans as his lovely grenade-belt let him take along down to hell. Or heaven? What did the Law say about suicide bombers…?

He ran and ran, and his pitiful sniffles joined the clattering produced by his rifle that kept bouncing around his knees and thighs, hitting them repeatedly as it swung from its leather belt. Good ‘ole Vincent “Vinny” Droz, a wonder of Ursine technology. Why or how were the Ursus developing such fine firearms was beyond the boy’s knowledge, nor did he ever feel inclined enough to delve any deeper into the matter. All he knew was that it shot good and took lives, and that’s all it needed to do. That day, it took a lot of lives. It took too many, and not just devils but angels as well. The W-centered thoughts clouding his brain parted for a moment, making way for a completely different freighter of clattered worries to enter his mind’s cargo-bay. He shot his own. He stained his palms with red, shattered the golden fleece of another angel and sent them upstairs. Tore apart one of the Lawful agreements, disobeyed the forces above. His halo kept flickering, thoughts kept gathering. Amidst the muddy field, he fell to his knees and nearly face-planted into the dirt. The entire situation dawned upon the boy like the day of judgment, awaited, yet always hoped to be postponed. There he was, alone and empty, left by everyone and everything, even the higher powers that had watched his every move from above diligently for the past sixteen and a half years.

With not a soul by his side, only and just the two eternal companions that bathed in mud by his knees - two instruments of war, forever devoted to him and him only, eagerly awaiting the next order, next bullet fed into their chambers or ori-explosion produced within. Andy kneeled and pondered. He pondered, and he truly pondered hard. What was life, even? A life without W? A life without the light above his head? He’d be made a complete freak, had he ever returned back home. No girl, especially not Lem, would ever dare look at him without disgust spilling from their eyes and pity lining their lips. No girl would ever grace him with her sight.