[ WP ] `` They call us monsters , son . ''

There are a great number of things that are believed to be true, but there are a number of truths that are cleverly woven lies that keep everyone comfortable. One truth is that monsters are n't real, for instance. This truth is only a truth to those who have n't opened their eyes. The world is full of people, people who can barely handle their inadequate, melodramatic normal lives. They ca n't look below the already grimy surface of their nearly intolerable world because they just ca n't take what's down there. 
 
 There are two people sitting in a diner, a crowded place full of people. Both are wearing big heavy coats and military styled baseball caps, one of them wears a bandanna covering most of her lower face. 
 
 `` So, what you're telling me is... if I do this, I'm going to be hated if I go out in public without covering up. Everyone will be... afraid of me?'' 
 
 The woman nods, tugging her face covering down and sipping coffee. Her lips are scarred badly in a trio of lines and burns run up one side of her face. 
 
 `` Damn skippy kiddo. That's just how it is, unfortunately.'' 
 
 He frowns and pokes at his chicken sandwich, concerned about the sanitary practices at this particular place. The counter does n't look what he would call explicitly clean. 
 
 `` But... we help people. We're the good guys,'' he replies, looking to her. Up one side of his neck, a thick scarred line runs. It bears the lines crossing it of past surgical staples, thin little things. One eye looks to her, the other looks at nothing, because there is no other eye. All there is on the right side is a leather patch covering up a vacant socket that used to hold his second dull green eye. Right above the scar, a small symbol is tattooed, a hexagon with an arcane marker for repelling curses in it. 
 
 `` I'm sorry, but we're not the good guys, Jack. You can play at it, you can try to be, but you're fourteen and a warrior. You've died, and been given a second chance at life and you did n't become a doctor, a motivational speaker, a lawyer, a nurse - you're a killer. You hunt, and you kill,'' she says, smiling bitterly and staring straight ahead. `` Do you like killing?'' 
 
 He thinks a minute, poking the sandwich again. He figures their enchanted anti-biotics can stop any infections it might give him. The sandwich is taken up, and a bite is taken. Once he swallows, he figures he's got an answer. 
 
 `` I love the killing. I was sad when they threw me out of Valhalla because I did n't belong there and even more disappointed when they were n't going to send me to hell. I'm... I'm a fucked up guy,'' he says, sighing. 
 
 `` Exactly, Jack. And that's what they see. They do n't see that we kill monsters, they do n't see that we're doing a public service, they see that I'm seven foot three and four hundred pounds of muscular fun. I'm a killer, a murderer. I took curses and mutations to my body, and they see those without bothering to look why I did it,'' she says softly. `` We're not friends to them, nor lovers. We save them, but we're not heroes. We're mutated, cursed, demonic, magic, but we're not the good guys.'' 
 
 Jack frowns, considering this. He pulls his cap off to expose his bright red hair. The young man runs his fingers through it and tries to figure out what to say. 
 
 `` Are we... the bad guys?'' 
 
 She laughs, a dark, cruel sound. 
 
 `` Son, we're about as bad as a fluffy bunny. That does n't change what they see. You're looking at the world from how we see it, we here on the ragged edge, we broken and reformed by nightmares. Honey, you need to look at the world from their eyes, the eyes of someone who has n't shattered the grimy shell and looked at what spilled out,'' the woman explains. `` Your mother did n't look. She did heroin to suppress her ability to see the dead, the demons, the angels, the monsters... look at it from the perspective of that woman over there, mother of three, her children are bad because she does n't have the strength to care for them. Look at it from the perspective of the drunk over there.'' 
 
 Jack tries to do this, tries to look at it all from another perspective. From the perspective of someone who does n't have metal holding their skeleton together. Someone who was n't hit by a bus and accidentally - thanks to a server error the Reaper's had - sent to the wrong heaven. The young man tries to push away three minutes completely dead, three minutes that became thirty years in valhalla. He does his best to suppress his urges, to put away his need for bloodshed, to suppress his inability to be happy unless his clothes stink of gunsmoke and he hears the screams of the dying regularly. 
 
 He comes to a realization right as a shiver passes down his spine and his much older companion shivers. Both rise and smoothly draw large revolvers from the holsters on their belts. 
 
 `` Hello everyone, my name is-'' 
 
 `` Androlail. A minor demon of hell, here to destroy this town as part of a plot to turn this country, this whole country, into a Hell's Gate,'' the woman interrupts, cocking her hammer back. Her coat shifts and from below it, tentacles slide out. Each one holds a different kind of pistol, each one loaded. They're black, these tentacles, and slick with some odd natural lubrication - and there are at least a dozen. `` My name is Sarah, your people call me The Oncoming Rain because I wash clean this planet of filth li-'' 
 
 The demon is prepared, and she is not prepared for that. Long before she pulls any triggers, he snaps out a gun and fires a single shot. It happens to be a perfect shot made by a superhuman being, done with preternatural accuracy. It cuts through her chest, and happens to hit a cage of inhuman bone around her heart in a specific place. The bone breaks, and a shard of it pierces the muscle. The young man, of course, opens fire immediately, emptying his gun. She pulls all of her triggers and a shocking number of slugs with silver slivers hits the monster. 
 
 It screams, as most do when shot with bullets that do n't kill them immediately. 
 
 He falls then, crumples, screaming in agony. 
 
 `` These bullets have little scrolls in them, rolled up pieces of paper under an epoxy cap that have inscribed on them the blood of the hunters, being us, and the curses that can undo a demonic soul,'' the young man hisses. 
 
 The woman sways, then smiles. 
 
 `` In the name of Lord Death, I declare.... that you do not belong. In accordance with the Borderlands Ghastly Law, and the Reality Genesis Whispering will, I sentence you to death,'' she hisses. He catches fire while people start to scream, finally. `` True death demon. Not exorcism, not temporary death... True death. Scary huh? I know that I'm afraid.'' 
 
 And then the massive woman crumples, falling to the ground. 
 
 Jack does n't turn to face her. He just holsters his pistol rather quickly and drags a knife off his belt, slits open his palm. Blood splatters out and hits the ground, forming arcane symbols where it lands. 
 
 `` Silence!'' he roars. The sound vibrates in the air, and it echoes in people's minds for moments after their throats stop being capable of making screams. 
 
 His knees hit the floor. 
 
 `` Sarah! Sarah, what do I do!?'' he demands, pressing his hands to the wound on her chest, trying to stop the bleeding with pressure. 
 
 `` Not a damn thing,'' she rasps, smiling a little. `` Bleeding bad. Heart is damaged, hole in it... Jack, you should go. Cops will be here soon, you know our protocol...'' 
 
 `` No. I refuse. There must be a curse, a potion, there must!'' he shouts, face set in an expression of fear. 
 
 `` Honey, I love you to death, but you got ta go. My death curse will hit when I kick off, and it's not guided. It'll kill everything supernatural that has violated the law in about two hundred fifty yards,'' she tells him, eyes locked on his face. The pupils are dilated, both of them. 
 
 `` I do n't want to. I can fix your heart! I'm a good healer!'' 
 
 `` Anti-magic metal, lovely boy. You ca n't heal me without doing surgery first, and you're no surgeon outside of battlefield medicine. Go on, go and get out of here,'' she murmurs. `` Take the car and guns. You got a job to do. That's an order.'' 
 
 He stands. 
 
 This young man spent thirty years as a soldier. 
 
 He always takes orders. 
 
 He turns sharply, suppressing his emotions. 
 
 `` I love you, mom.'' 
 
 `` I'm not your mother, kid,'' she mutters. `` Listen... remember... why you have to hide. They call us monsters, son. They call us nasty, ugly monsters... and... I love you too.'' 
 
 He pushes through the door and walks to their. Both have a set of keys to the vehicle. There's no ceremony. It's not a nice car, not even close. It looks like crap, with homebrew armoring on it and bullet proof glass windows installed by amateurs, but it does the job. He climbs in the driver's seat and starts the engine. Lights flicker inside the diner. 
 
 Jack pulls the car onto the road and starts driving. 
 
 Tears roll down his cheeks. 
 
 `` They call us monsters,'' he mutters, angrily. `` We're the monsters.'' 
 
 EDIT: I wrote this while so fucking drunk, holy shit. I hope it's not awful.
