Heavens Away (Gabriel x Arknights)

Prologue: Descension

"Come on, machine! Is that it?!" Gabriel yelled out, his screams becoming a hollow echo throughout the snow ladened Treachery Layer.

Amongst the freezing landscape, he fought for what seemed like an eternity against the blitzing machine.

For an Angel as radiant as him, such trivialities like the cold were insignificant before his divine splendor.

A light of gold and the purest of blue, shown from his wings and halo. Ironically enough, he was the Pride of Heaven, God's Mightiest Soldier after Michael had left.

Invincible, he had believed himself to be invincible, unknowingly taking a vanitous pride in such a word that never truly described him.

It was only in Gluttony did he see himself bleeding, laying on the decrepit and rotting flesh of the layer did he realize...

He had been bested.

By a machine of all things, made by the most sinful of humans, the hubris that had crushed their own kind and laid waste to billions upon billions.

What was he? The Supreme Archangel of Heaven? Such a hit to him had nearly shattered his mind, his views.

Under the gaze and disappointment of The Council, Gabriel had the Light of God taken from his body, stripped away to lay bare the husk that would remain after.

His pride has been crushed, his status has been taken.

However, he had one semblance of pride that remained.

His blades.

He hadn't drawn them, the instruments that could repel even the greatest of Apocalypses, the one that had stripped Lucifer of his limbs.

Splendor and Justice.

'Splendor is Justice.'

'Justice is Splendor.'

Those were the two words engraved on its sheathe, showing the true hypocrisy of the Angel and his twisted and broken views.

What does Splendor matter in Justice? What does Justice need of Splendor?

When he drew them in the layer of Heresy, he was livid, a screaming and burning wrath that seemed to drown out all other anger that was present.

Bearing his fangs against the machine once more, the ravenous anger that had consumed felt as if it was...

Being torn away?

Bit by bit, every blow he took, every time he saw the glorious dance of the machine evading his blows; it was then he realized that he was having fun.

The passion of battle, the heat of the struggle. When was the last time he had faced such difficulty? When was the last time his life was on the brink, even when he was giving it his all?

It was enlightening, burning his passion far more than the remaining Light of God that dwindled in him.

No longer was he fighting for his pride, no longer was he fighting for Heaven, no longer was he consumed by wrath.

He had lost for the second time.

Did it matter at that very moment? No, it did not. He laughed, a voracious laughter that was filled with his own blood.

Blood should taste bitter, so why...? Why was it such a sweet taste, a great sense of utter relief when he laid there beaten?

Escaping and making his way back to Heaven, he had to contemplate this.