All that's Left, Origins

Rat's Rage

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you." -Mark Twain

Thomas's POV

"Do not go gentle into that good night..." Thomas said to himself as he cleaned the sword. He sat alone outside, looking off into the distance, "Old age should burn and rave at the close of day."

It felt like he was falling off a long and jagged cliff, hitting off some of the stone that jabbed out from it. And now he's getting close to the bottom...

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right."

He knew the probability of his survival. It was slim, but he didn't care. He had to fight him.

"Because their words had forked no lightning, they do not go gentle into that good night."

But his words had forked lightning. He remembered that day on the bridge, when he aimed his gun at The Batter. He could see the fire burning in his brother's eyes as he glared at him from the other end. The smell of electricity had hit his nose, that strange smell you smell before lightning strikes.

"Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, and learn too late, they grieved it on it's way."

Thomas held up the sword and let the blade reflect the bright morning sun, saying, "Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight; blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

He sheathed the sword and pulled out his revolver, and began to load it. But he didn't look at the bullets as he put them in, but still stared at the morning sun.

"And you, my father, there on sad height, curse...bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray."

Thomas slung the cylinder into place and holstered the weapon. Thomas closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

A voice behind him voiced their opinion, "It's time to go Thomas."

The Batter's POV

The Batter grabbed hold of the pole and swung around it laughing. It was all almost ready, he could feel it. Around him, his men hung up decorations and lights. It resembled that of some sort of fair or carnival, and each man smiled as they worked. Some hung up lights around the buildings, others hung corpses by the lights high above the field. Khan ran up to The Batter with a note.

"Sir!" Khan said as he stood erect before his commander. The Batter stopped his merriment and scowled at Khan slightly for his interruption. He hopped down from his perch and grabbed the note out of his hand without saying a word. The Batter opened it up and read it out loud...

"Dear Batter,

I have decided to come to your childish display. Hopefully you won't need me to help your

ass when things go wrong; I'd much rather watch you be maimed. You better hope this

isn't a complete waste of my time, Donatello.

-Butcher"

The Batter tore the letter in half and gritted his teeth.

"Fuck him! I'll fucking rip his guts out and shove them down his fucking throat. I'll smash his testicals into a juice and make him drink it! I'll crush his skull into dust and snort it like fucking cocaine! I'll shove my bat up his ass and leave him impaled! I'll-"