What you think of me doesn’t matter at all. I care about a few things in this world but your opinion ain’t one of ‘em. All that matters is myself and screw everyone else.
What you think of me doesn’t matter at all… but if it did… I’d say you don’t know me like you think you do. If your opinion mattered, I’d say you were all wrong.
Some folks think I’m evil by nature. Some folks also think that sexuality is unnatural and killing people for a cause is righteous. Some folks even think I’m a tool of the devil, but the truth is I just don’t care!
If it mattered at all, you might be interested to find out that I’m NOT some demonic entity meant to cause pain and destruction. The red horns, the levitation, the green fireballs, they’re all just a miserable little side-affect of a monotheistic system and its influence on some protoscience gone wrong.
Seriously, if it mattered at all, all that I am is desire. Greed. Want. Cravings. Lust. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be constantly bombarded by all those little impulses you confront throughout the day, but not have the willpower to say no? I’m all that, concentrated. I’m everything from the little white lie to the crime against humanity. I’m selfish, self-centered, and I couldn’t care less. And it can’t be helped. It’s just who I am.
Some folks think that makes me pure evil. But right or wrong, I really just don’t care.
Three months. He had been running for three months. His clothes were ripped, stinking of sweat. His hair was matted to his head, caked with dried mud. His face was damp and dirty, the blood on his cheek and forehead a testament to falls he had taken earlier. His breathing was ragged, choking, and his body ached, but he kept running.
He needed a hot meal and a warm bath, but above all else, he needed rest. The last he had managed were scraps from a dumpster and a few sleepless hours in an alleyway before he had to run again. How long had it been? A day? Three days? A week? It didn’t matter. He had to get away from the angel.
Whatever city he had been in earlier, he was far away from it now, lost in the wilderness, running through the dense forest with only one direction in mind: away. Anywhere would do, so long as it was away from the angel.
He made his way around the trees and brush with a desperate haste that spoke of fear. Aged roots made his footing uncertain, threatening to send him crashing to the ground. With a sudden gasp, his foot slipped on a pile of loose, dead leaves. Suddenly, the world was spinning, up and down, up and down as he tumbled down the wooded hillside. His body crashed against rocks and roots, sending jolts of pain through his already aching frame. When he came to rest at the bottom of the slope, it felt so easy to simply lie on the ground and wait for sleep to come. Or worse.
Everything hurt, but nothing was broken. He had to keep running. He had to—
“Joel!”
His eyes snapped open at the sound of his name. His body, hot from prolonged exertion, suddenly ran cold with fear.
The angel was upon him.
Joel rolled over and pulled himself to a nearby tree, leaning back against the rough bark to face his pursuer. He saw the angel high above him, nearly twenty feet at the crest of the hill. The sunlight shone through the treetops above, around the angel’s head, making his features indistinguishable. But Joel knew the face that looked upon him, for it was also his own.
“Leave me alone!” Joel screeched, breathing hard, “This is what you wanted!”
“No, Joel,” the angel spoke, his voice loud and strong, “This was an accident. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“GO AWAY! Get away from me!” Joel cried, his filthy face twisting with agony.
The angel began to descend the slope, leaves crunching underfoot.
Joel scrambled to his feet, his muscles burning in protest, “You ALWAYS get your way! Why don’t you just kill me?!”
“We cannot kill one without destroying the other,” the angel replied, “And we cannot survive in this world as we are. We’re a threat to everyone.”
“This is all YOUR fault!” Joel shrieked as he turned and started to run through the forest, “You wanted me gone! Leave me alone!” He couldn’t run at full speed anymore. There would be no escape this time. Again, Joel lost his footing and he fell to the ground. There was a flash of pain and a warm taste of copper as blood filled his mouth. Sputtering, he rolled over and saw the angel standing directly over him. He saw his own face on the angel, slick with sweat, but cleaner, and an expression of sorrow.
“I admit fault,” the angel spoke softly, “And that’s why I’ve been chasing you all this time. You and I are both broken. We exist in a manner that shouldn’t be, and others will suffer because of that.”
“I won’t go back,” Joel growled.
The angel sighed sadly, “That's not your choice to make.”
In the depths of his defiance and frustration, Joel felt a new sensation swell up inside him. His body grew warm, the blood in his mouth tasted sweet on his tongue and he felt an overwhelming surge of determination, “You’re wrong. It's the only choice I've got.”
The angel’s eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react, Joel was on his feet, his hands clamped down on the angel’s face. Joel roared with anger and he felt his hands burn until they ignited in a supernatural green flame. The angel screamed. Then Joel bashed his adversary’s head against a nearby tree and the angel flopped to the ground, unconscious.
It took him a few seconds to notice his hands were burning. Joel flexed his fingers and examined his palms, seeing he was unharmed by the flickering green flames. As the adrenaline faded, he felt a weakness overtake him and the flames promptly died as he walked shakily away from the fallen angel.
Things would be different now.
The fireballs were a new thing. Perhaps some odd permutation of the deoxyribonucleic acid. The green color was inexplicable. Fires could burn different colors based on their spectral-emissions, but Joel couldn’t explain how he generated the flame, or why his skin remained unscorched.
The short, blood-red horns, on the other hand, had been there from day one. People rarely took notice, but to be safe, he had taken to wearing a black hooded sweater he had stolen from a church clothes closet.
What little he had, Joel now had a great luxury: time. Free from his pursuer, he now had all the time in the world to think with a clear head. He could prioritize, plan, make proper decisions. His choices were easy enough to begin with: sleep, food, clean clothes, a little first aid, but once those matters were settled, difficult questions arose.
The experiment. The results. He knew that Dr. Josephus de Viaminima had sought to seek purification of the soul through alchemy by purging himself of impurities. But when the trial literally backfired, it split the doctor into two diametric opposites—two physical manifestations of what one might call “good” and “evil”.
The angel and the demon.
And it was the doctor's “good”, moral, responsible side that had sought to reunite somehow with the demon to correct the error that had been made.
But Joel knew, as much as the angel had, what the intended goal had been. It was as much his work as his counterpart's. There would never be another chance like this. A chance to live happily, free from restraint. The angel thought they were two halves meant to be made whole—some weak, damaged soul that needed fixing.
Joel did not need fixing. He was not broken. He was reborn. Renewed.
He was free.
The snow-capped mountain range stood a cold, unforgiving wall of sentinels in the far northern hemisphere. It was within their solid stone souls that the hollow caverns lay, the magma of a long dormant volcano still flowing through deep, searing gashes. The room was illuminated not only with molten rock, but hundreds of lights. Their bright display made all the more dazzling by the reflection from the piles of precious metals and minerals: an expanse of wealth in its most natural form. Large heaps of paper currency fell periodically from unseen portals above, tumbling into the magma and creating a tail of flame that danced and vanished into the air. Spiked cages hung from the ceiling, alluring women inside glistening with sweat as they swayed and gyrated their bodies to the incessant music that filled the subterranean grotto of wealth and flame.
And in the middle of it all, seated on an imposing ebony throne, dressed in the finest Ruggierio suit in the galaxy, was Joel Diablo. He sat in complete contentment, a leg unceremoniously draped over the arm of the velvet-bound chair, lounging idly in the midst of excess and luxury.
At his whim, a young slave boy of an indeterminate species appeared with a glass of cold, refreshing water. Joel tilted his head back, eyes closed, mouth open, waiting for the thirst-quenching coolness. There was a drip of condensation on his face.
Two drips.
Three drips.
A foul smelling water continued to drip on his face from the leaky pipe above his head. Realizing this, Joel rolled over on the filthy cot as his face contorted into a toothy grimace of disgust and bitterness. When he finally opened his eyes, he could see the cold, dark room: the hole in the plaster wall, the exposed plumbing in the ceiling, the trashy, dirty floor where vermin openly scuttled about.
Damnit, this was not how things were supposed to be.
He sat up on the edge of the cot and wiped the slick residue from his face. Behind him, the water continued to make a soft patting sound on the canvas. He swore quietly as he pulled the makeshift bed out from under the leak.
For the past few months, Joel had been living a poor criminal life, stealing from others and living in squalor. Despite his better efforts, he couldn’t seem to acquire the wealth or comfort he imagined would be his. Free of responsibility and the angel’s pursuit, he thought perhaps he could finally fulfill his desires very easily, only to find himself living on junk food and in run-down tenements.
This was not how things were supposed to be at all.
As he sat back down on the soiled, damp bunk, Joel wondered if his condition had anything to do with his inability to succeed. As the doctor, it was Joel’s determination that had helped him excel. But it was the angel’s sense of order and responsibility that had kept him on focused on the necessary steps to achieve his goals.
Seeking understanding, Joel cleared his mind and tried to find the place inside him where he had once been whole. Maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, he could tap into the angel’s will and somehow and use it. He sat in the darkness, the loud hum of aged ventilation and the continuous drip, drip, drip of the leaky pipe filling his ears. He was nearly ready to give up the futile exercise and try to go back to sleep when he suddenly felt something pull in his chest and his eyes opened.
He wasn’t sure what it was he had found, but in a figurative sense, it had felt like he had followed some connection to an empty point inside his self where the line had been severed. Stranger still, he felt a strong compulsion to follow this connection to wherever it led beyond his being. It was almost as if the two were still connected by some invisible tether, despite being two separate entities. It seemed the proper thing to do was to seek the other end.
And as he lay down on the small bed, Joel resolved to follow it once the morning arrived.
Hokkaido Japan. Every day it became easier and easier to sense the inner compass. Joel knew he was closing in on the angel and wondered if maybe the angel could sense Joel’s growing proximity.
There was no way of knowing why the angel would have come to a place so far from what was once his home. The last time Joel had seen him nearly a year ago, he was injured and unconscious on the floor of some far-off forest, lying limp on a blanket of dead leaves. Maybe Joel had hurt him worse than he had first thought. But why here?
Joel’s pursuit had brought him to a small farming village—an unusual relic of times past. Most folks got their food from the bio-engineering agridomes, but for a community to continue to live by growing its own food, well… it was unusual—even for a country that had spearheaded some of the unique revolutions in engineered agriculture. These people weren’t quite up to speed with the rest of the world—the way a mother had reacted to the sight of Joel’s horns was enough to convince him of this. He wore his hood low over his face for the rest of the trek.
It was but a mere few hours later when he saw him.
The dwellings were still archaic, but there was no doubting he had entered the central part of the village. In the midst of a row of public buildings, a man emerged, a sack slung over his shoulder. He paused for a second as two young children darted past him, then continued walking down the unpaved street. He wore frayed cotton clothes and a large straw hat over his head. A heavy burlap coat kept his wings hidden perfectly...
But his face. There was no mistaking that face. It was Joel's own.
The angel. The severed connection had indeed led him to his other self.
Now what?
Joel watched as the angel turned a corner and started down an alley. He walked carefully to arouse little suspicion. As he peered around the corner he heard voices.
“... thank you enough for all you do.”
“It's my pleasure, Kou-san,” the angel spoke. Joel saw a small elderly woman dressed in a simple kimono. She was heaping praise on the angel as he handed her some kind of produce from the sack. Always the boy scout.
“Have you made any progress yet?”
The angel shook his head, smiling, “No, but that's okay. Everyone's been very good to me here. I want to do what I can to show my gratitude.”
“Such a respectful young man,” the old woman smiled sweetly, “Say hello to Hisao-san for me.”
The angel bowed slightly before continuing down the alley as the old woman stepped back into her home. What had she meant by 'progress' Joel wondered. Was he trying to find some way to reverse the experiment? It didn't make any sense—especially out in the middle of this backwoods farming community. Joel continued to follow after his adversary.
The angel made stops at other buildings, speaking briefly with the people of the village and handing out produce from his sack until finally he came upon a lone farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Night was falling over the land and as the stars began to appear in the sky, so too did lights began to glow in the windows of the small homes that dotted the rolling landscape.
From his vantage point in the tree, Joel watched as the angel stepped on the small porch and into the house. Whatever the angel was planning, Joel would find out soon enough.
He crouched, stepping quickly and lightly through the produce fields until finally, after crossing a small expanse of yard he came to a lit window high off the ground. He carefully peered inside and saw the angel in what appeared to be a sparsely furnished sleeping room, sitting on the floor in front of a short-legged table. He was studying something on his inner wrist.
Joel's eyes widened with surprise.
Short vertical scars: the telltale signs of a typical technomancer. Someone who had the ability to “communicate” with electrical devices on a biological level. It was a trait that had made Dr. Josephus de Viaminima unique in the field of alchemy.
But after the accident, Joel had noticed that while the angel had retained this ability, he himself had been unable to manipulate anything at all. It were as if the gift of the technomancer had been exclusive to the doctor's “good” side.
But what struck Joel the most was the angel's behavior. He was staring at the markings on his wrist with a great deal of curiosity and concentration, almost as if he had no idea where they had come from. Was it possible that the angel had forgotten how to interface?
Again, Joel had a vision of his hands on the angel's head as they were engulfed in the green flames and the sickening crack as Joel tossed him into the tree trunk.
Amnesia. The old lady wasn't asking the angel about some science experiment. She was asking if he had made any progress recovering his memories.
Almost immediately, the angel stood up and exited the room, walking down the hall. Joel followed his movement from outside the house. Moving from window to window until he finally came upon a small kitchen. A family sat at a table that seemed far too small for them all. A woman was gathering dishes and placing them on the table as a young girl and an even younger boy took turns poking and pushing each other. An older man sat across from them, his white hair thinning, his beard full. Next to him sat a man who appeared to be in his late 30s. The color of his skin spoke of countless hours spent in the primitive farmland, tending crops. These were simple folk—the kind of people who could appreciate some poor amnesiac soul who was willing to work hard in return for a place to sleep and food to eat. What a dope.
As the angel joined the family at the table and the meal began, Joel started to notice that despite what appeared to be a pitiful situation, the family and their house guest were friendly and cheerful. The crops were coming along well, the father had said, the season had been good to them. With the stranger's help, the family had managed to repair some of the damaged equipment and even fixed parts of the house that were in need of improvement. They had made enough money to buy the children newer clothes. Then somewhere in the midst of the conversation the grandfather launched into some story about his youth that involved a chicken and a barrel and laughter filled the room. And through it all, despite not knowing who or what he had been, the angel appeared to not have a care in the world. Even in this simple, meager life—a life that was, by today's standards, primitive, he was happy.
Afterwards the table had been cleared and the lights had been extinguished and the room emptied. Joel sat outside in the cool night beneath the window, his back to the house. He sniffed quietly, wiping tears from his eyes.
The angel was happy.
Joel was not.
It wasn't fair. None of it. All Joel wanted was to be free and happy, but he couldn't have it. He couldn't have it without the angel.
And he hated the angel.
So if Joel couldn't be happy, then neither could the angel. He would follow him where ever he was, hunt him down where ever he went, and with his anger he would destroy everything that made the angel happy.
Joel felt a slight warmth as his hands suddenly ignited in the familiar green flame; he watched, hypnotized, as the fire danced around his fists and cast animated shadows around him.
He would burn everything that made the angel happy to the ground.
Ten years. Ten long years. During that time, he had seen some pretty amazing things, but nothing had prepared him for the events that took place in the run-down industrial town of Citru. The beast-man had taken him by surprise, which annoyed him to no end—and the zombies had certainly been unexpected. Somehow, after the dust had settled, he had managed to make his way out of the city and traveled far south, across the Plains of Darshi and past the agridomes and golf resorts before arriving in Vegas.
The main drag had been very impressive. It was also very expensive, so Joel found himself wandering the back streets of Vegas, traveling down the darker, dirtier roads, forgotten and ignored by many. It was here he had found the trashiest, cheapest hole-in-the-wall and commenced drowning his frustrations in hard liquor.
The air was thick and stale. An antique jukebox sat in the corner, an ancient rock ballad whining quietly through the aged speakers. Gaudy neon beer signs illuminated the bar top. A couple shadowy figures were knocking billiard balls together on a dirty pool table in the corner. Even the alcohol was warm. But none of it mattered.
Oscar was gone.
Joel had always had some sense of knowing exactly where the angel was. Sometimes it took a couple months, but eventually he would pinpoint the exact location and a battle would certainly ensue. But today was different. After leaving Citru, the angel’s presence deep within Joel had withered away until there was nothing left but an empty space. Try as he might, no matter how hard he concentrated, Joel simply could not find the angel. He was gone, and now…
How ironic. Ten years ago, Joel would've given anything to be as far away from the pursuing angel as possible. But things changed. Things were always changing. And when the tables had turned and Joel was in pursuit, the angel was the one on the run. And now, he was gone. The hollow space where a feeling of direction had once been nourished by hatred and disgust, jealousy and desire, was now very, very empty.
Joel was lost.
So lost that he didn’t notice the older gentleman in the fancy robe enter the establishment and take a seat at the bar.
So lost, in fact, that when the robed figure spoke, Joel didn’t hear his words clearly the first time.
“He is gone, isn’t he? You cannot track him like you used to, can you?”
Joel took another deep drink.
“Would you like to know where he is?”
Joel shakily raised his head and glared through the tops of his eyes at the robed man with the white beard. The guy was completely out of his element, looking like some sort of priest or holy man. Maybe this is his idea of trying to get people to join his cult, Joel thought.
“Fuck off, old man,” Joel slurred.
“For the past ten years, you’ve been tracking him down and fighting him and every time, there’s never any real resolution, never really any outcome that truly benefits you. You’re tired, Joel Diablo, I can tell. And I can help you.”
Joel turned sharply back towards the old man, appearing to sober up somewhat, “How do you know my name?”
“I know quite a lot about a lot of things, Joel. I know who you once were and what you are now. I know what you want to be and what you can become. But most importantly, I know where the angel and his companions are and if you want to have your revenge, I can help you. All you need simply to do is ask me.”
Joel was standing now, his brow moist with sweat, the tips of his ears burning, his hands growing clammy. His stomach felt ill. It was probably all the alcohol. “Who are you?”
The old man smiled, “You may call me Moebius…”
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