My Secret Demon Boy

Shadows Of The Past

When he had heard the apartment door open, and the human boy returned home, he had been elated that the boy was home. While he was no longer trapped in the apartment, he also didn't really have a huge interest in exploring on his own, especially since any passing human could be another dark creator in disguise, just like he was. Although he had admittedly gone outside about an hour or so before Skeppy returned home. He had just gone out, and literally danced in the rain, it got him a few odd looks, and probably murmured comments, but it didn't matter. It was his second encounter with natural water since returning to the surface, and his first encounter with rain in over 200 years. He had returned inside sopping wet, and yet not cold, although he was pretty quick to dry off with his warm skin.

It was a trait he was never really sure how to explain, but ever since he turned his body temperature had raised significantly higher than any natural living being should be able to tolerate. So it kept him from feeling the chill of the surface, and in this case, kept him from trailing a trenchcoat's worth of puddles back into Skeppy's home.

He shook himself off regardless, in his human form, and he was just starting to investigate when Skeppy had returned. The human boy quickly pulled his attention to the table, and handed him a book. It was worn, and bound leather, and its pages were rough and yellowing on the edges. It looked printed, but the text was clearly handwritten, with slightly loopy and flowing handwriting keeping notes and documentations in the book. He watched as the tan boy skimmed through pages, and handed him a note written in galactic. The second letter he had instantly recognized as his own handwriting. He felt rooted in place as he picked his way through memories and spoke to the human. But his voice felt faint, and like every word was clawing its way from his mouth, and forcing its way through water instead of air.

"I mean, that book is the only survivor of a massacre, a massacre that was my fault."

He had tried so hard to forget that day, he really, truly had, and he wished he had been successful. He was staring at his own note, one hundred years later, and everything felt like it was falling away in the present. Reality blended with memories, and Skeppy's voice didn't register in his mind as he looked down at the fading ink.

"Badboyhalo." A voice jarred him from his studies in the deep netherrack room. "Dream is requesting your presence."

He knew the boy, he was a young demon, new to their team, only recently turned. So, he spoke in English, which Bad didn't mind, he still enjoyed hearing the language when it was so scantily used deep in the burning depths of red rock. He fished for his name in his memory. Something with a q. . .q and ducks. Quackity! That had been his name, he gave a small smile as he looked up at the other.

"Thank you Quackity." He nodded, pushing himself off the chair, "Do you know why?"

"It's. . .regarding the letters to the surface. To the stolen subjects? I- I'm not sure what he meant to be honest, but I assume you do."

"Yes, thanks again Quackity, I'll see you around okay?"

He saw the young demon nod, and Bad brushed past him, walking down the brown and gray halls, before taking a turn into the heart of the fortress. He always found himself staring at the strange and other worldly mobs that hovered and cracked around him. Well, who was he to call them other worldly when he himself was? He pushed the thought aside, and knocked on the large blue doors. It was Dream's quarters.

Dream was one of the most feared soldiers under the Council. He wasn't technically directly on it, and yet many of its lower members would never dare challenge him, nor his judgement. Dream was not much older than Bad, and he was one of the rare demons who had not died before being turned. He held his breath, rigid and stiff as he waited for whatever it may be that the general wanted. The door opened swiftly, and Dream looked down at him. What jarred Halo the most was the fact that for once, the general was not wearing his normal plaster white mask.