This Isn't About Reya

Chapter Forty

The Nephilim that had stabbed Michel Petrushev through the lung had no name. Only the Archangels themselves, as well as Azrael the Newborn King, were worthy of being counted as individuals. The rest of the Nephilim that had sprung from the depths of the New Soviet Union's twisted experimentation were known only by the particular flavors of their essences, the colors of their souls. That was how the Nephilim saw the world: through the flow of softlight, essence, soul.

Michel's killer had a dark soul, one that danced with cruelty, rage, and sadism - even more so than most of his brethren. Though he was only a firstborn and not a newborn like Azrael and the rest of his legion - and thus was not an example of the zenith of what a Nephilim body and soul could achieve - he was still noted for his ability to lead other Nephilim and to soak fear into the souls of men.

If this Nephilim were to have a conventional name, it may have been Selatael in the Enochian tongue, Ziminiar in the language of the First Nephilim, Dakuvu-qung in the modern Quoc Quyet dialect, Temno Plyakun in New Russian, or Tenebris Saltator in the Language of Men. In Federation English, his name would have been Darkwalker. 

But he had no name. He had only his cruelty, which shone in his essence like the way the moonlight reflects off of the ocean, in dappled brilliance on the surface of black waves.

Darkwalker stood over Michel's body and stared down at it as a pool of blood surrounded him. He looked down at his taloned feet, scraping on the floor, soaking in the crimson. He stepped out of the pool, turned around, and walked towards the depositor in the center of the room.

The other Nephilim - all of them firstborn, merely a collection detachment for so small a colony - investigated the corpse one by one, and then returned to their various duties. The depositor hummed at the influx of seed metals, spewing out clumps of new elements. They collected beneath the depositor, where other Nephilim melted them down and mixed them, creating the black alloy that the Nephilim used for their structures, weapons, even starships and worldships, now. 

Void metal, they would call it. Darkwalker had heard Michel's essence utter the phrase before he died. Voidmetal...

Slowly, he became aware of a growing displeasure from one of the other Nephilim nearby. Darkwalker turned in its direction and pinpointed the source. A firstborn stood, staring at him.

You shouldn't have killed him, it thought at Darkwalker. We could have used him as another host.

Darkwalker snarled back, drawing the attention of some of the nearby Nephilim. Their elongated skulls turned towards the brewing conflict, manes of black hair tingling in anticipation of a fight.

We have no need for more firstborns, Darkwalker replied. He sent waves of irritation radiating outwards through his telepathy. The King of the Damned has succeeded on Aquilo-Nix. The Newborn Legions will far surpass the firstborn.

Azrael's Newborn Legions are not here, the arguing Nephilim replied. We could use another drone in our work.

The formless Angels we still have available to us would be better used in the newborns Azrael is spawning now. Darkwalker was growing impatient. He took a threatening step towards the other Nephilim. This one's soul was not so cruel as conniving; it would be easily overpowered. Think of how we can best serve Gabriel and the First, rather than how to simplify our own duty.

Darkwalker turned back towards the depositor, daring the other Nephilim. And if you continue to question me, I will silence your insolence.

You are no king amongst us, it thought. 

Darkwalker heard an aggressive step from behind him. He turned, his sword arm outstretched, his body dodging out of the way. The Nephilim landed on the tip of his blade, its claws reaching for where his throat had been. It screamed in frustration.