The Outsider Looks Inward Who: Rascal ‘Sal’ Phoenix Where: Forests outside of Asgard When: Two nights after Sandalphon’s arrival Rating: R Warnings: Mentions of torture, murder, language Summary: Fate has a funny way of screwing people over, as Rascal Phoenix has discovered. And when it goes hand-in-hand with Coincidence, Sal finds himself convinced he really is his own worst enemy. With repressed memories flooding back, all he can do now is run – from Asgard, from Niflheim, and, once more, from himself. *Following this, "Brandy" will post, outing herself. After that post, Sal will disappear for three weeks. He will not respond in Brandy's last post. He'll be gone.
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
It shouldn’t have.
He’d done so much. So much…
Sneaking out of Asgard in the dead of night on April the eleventh, a lone figure darted towards the woods and under the crescent moon, silent, slippery, like the shadow of an eel submerged in a deep blue ocean. It wasn’t Brandy. Not this time. It was Sal, dressed in his usual leather attire, sans weapons. He’d kept the garment tucked under his bed as a reminder – like a lover’s note written just for him to say, “Don’t you forget me.”
But he had forgotten. And now he was being punished severely for it.
All these years, Sal had been telling falsehoods. It wouldn’t be proper to say he was lying, because he didn’t know the truth. But he deftly and smoothly misled people about his past.
My mother was a pimp, if you can believe it. I was on the streets before I was in middle school.
I’ve known about my powers since I was little. Was a boy once. A priest molested me. He was my first kill – eight years old at the time. Not too shabby.
You’d think I’d have an aversion to guns after being held at gunpoint when I was twelve years old. My dad was a drunk, you know. And not the friendly kind.
Not lies. No. Never lies. Speculation. Guesses. Hopes? Assumptions. Something had to be right. But he never cared to search for the truth. All he remembered, all he knew; was he wasn’t quite like other humans were. And because of this, he didn’t need to follow those same rules. He was above those rules. Below their standards. And because he was the outsider looking in, it was his right – his job – to keep those people in line. As far as he was concerned, that was the only reason he existed at all.
Breathing heavily, but not because he was out of breath, Sal sank down against the cool soil, leaning against a large maple tree. He clutched himself, not out of physical pain, but out of fear that the moment he lifted his arms, his entire being would unravel. Contrary to this dread was a crackling grin on his face – one that wasn’t all too uncommon when it came to a maniacal figure like himself. But what really offset his curled figure on the forest floor was the gleam in his grey eyes. They darted about, and then folded into the back of his head as if he was experiencing a moment of ecstasy. Only then did his tongue dance across his lips.
“Bad timing, Sally.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Fucking bad timing. You just…you couldn’t pull yourself together, could you. Not like all the other times. Just failed.”
He knew he would have never reached this place if it hadn’t been for Brandy: the innocuous, inconspicuous, moronic character he had chosen to portray in his undercover assignment in Asgard. He hadn’t seen it before. There hadn’t been a face to the name. Not to hers.
Sydney.
Something had triggered it. He didn’t know what. He remembered punching the mirror in his bathroom, looking at her reflection. The blue eyes – they…they held a memory in them. They weren’t his at all. Not in that moment.
Blue eyes. Red hair. And a face that seemed all too familiar, but only in the right light. Then it spiraled out of control. And she was everywhere, this Sydney. Not in Brandy’s personality – no, never then. But in her rare moments of compassion, her quiet moments of thoughtfulness, and in her haggard moments of surrender – there she was. She’d been his guardian angel, too. He didn’t know what to call her, didn’t know how to explain her. She would try to speak and he did everything in his power to either block her out or cease conversation altogether. This Sydney, whoever she was, wasn’t going to foil his plans. Plans that would end his life, which he intended to happen, whether or not his past was revealed to him.
“What’s in a name…” He paused for moment, the grin on his face stuttering before dying out. “Only you would know, wouldn’t you.”
Before he knew it, something shook him deep inside. His entire body began to seize, and he lurched forward, crouching on the ground. This fit, just like all the other ones before it, was a reminder that his body couldn’t handle whatever war his mind was engaged in. These walls he put up, they were breaking. And his body, in this turmoil, couldn’t handle what it was he was trying to conceal from himself. He nearly retched, blinded by the momentary onslaught of pain, but that pain didn’t last long.
Exhausted, her sat back up, but this time his body was shivering. He didn’t know if he could last much longer.
“You want it?” He scoffed. “You can’t take it either way, what makes you think you can this time.” This time he did get sick, turning his head sharply and vomiting beside himself. Throat burning, he spat up the last of it, and chuckled. “Guess I’ll take that as a sign, since a falling star would have been too obvious.”
You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.
Sal paused, having not expected that. His eyes darted around once more, having heard this Sydney’s voice, but not being able to find her anywhere.
“Uh…hello?” He frowned. He was going crazy, apparently.
I told you not to join that club. You didn’t listen to me, did you. I thought we had a deal, Sydney.
No. Now that didn’t make sense. Sydney spoke to him. Called him Sydney. That wasn’t possible.
You think you’d be able to trust your own mother. Come on, now, we’d better pack. I was starting to hate this town anyway.
This time Sal laughed bitterly, throwing his head back and knocking it against the trunk of the tree. “Fine, fuck you. Fuck you, tell it to me. I don’t care anymore. C’mooooon. Don’t stop now, we were just getting fucking confusing.”
What happened in school today?
“I shot somebody.” Sal responded. “I opened fire on my third grade class. I don’t know. Something with guns. Something rad.”
You think this is a joke? You think this is funny?
“It was until you started being a killjoy.”
Oh, so this is my fault now, is it? Is it? That’s not how you talk to your mother, Sydney. You know better.
Sal snorted. “You’re not my mother, you bitch.”
What?
“You heard me. You’re not my mother. You’re just something I tried to block out, you piece of –”
Mumma!
Sal paused. That sounded like him.
“Uh…hi? Yes?”
Mumma, no, it’s just a squirrel! Don’t be sad. I’ll stop doing it, okay? Okay? Don’t be mad.
“I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed in you. Squirrels, really? There wasn’t a cat or a hobo or –”
I said I wouldn’t do it again.
“Hey, now, I didn’t –”
You don’t believe me.
“Aw, c’mon –”
Of course you don’t believe me.
“No, you shit, I –”
I just wish for once, Mumma, you’d –
“ALRIGHT, ENOUGH!” Sal covered his ears with his hands, pressing tightly. “YOU FUCKING EMO SHIT WITH YOUR FUCKING MOMMY PROBLEMS, YOU CAN’T JUST SHUT UP FOR FIVE FUCKING SECONDS, YOU SOCIOPATHIC FUCK UP.”
Ten seconds after shouting at the top of his lungs, Sal came to the grim realization that he wasn’t going to be getting a response. Very carefully, he peeled his hands off his ears, and when he heard nothing but the sound of crickets, he sighed, relaxing.
“That was easy.”
But it wasn’t, for the moment the last syllable left his lips, his body seized again, this time with pain he’d never encountered in all his years. This time, he couldn’t stop the agonizing roar that tore from his mouth, as he felt his entire form being torn and shred. This was worse than being burned or shot or beaten half to death – and he had experienced all of that. His muscles felt like they were uncoiling, his bones bending under some incomprehensible weight, and his airway cut off, causing him to choke on his own breath. He felt burning, freezing, clawing, pounding, from the very center of his body. Unable to take the sheer agony, he doubled over on the ground and passed out.
The dam broke.
~*~*~
“Mumma?”
A red-haired woman looked to her left, watching her five-year-old daughter approach her cautiously. She folded her legs and leaned into the couch a little more, muting the television.
“Yes, baby?”
“Mumma, a weird man’s in your room.”
Sydney smiled. “It’s alright, it’s just a friend. He needed a place to stay. He’s a very important person. You’ll be nice to him, won’t you?”
“I guess so.” The black-haired child shifted uncomfortably. Sydney noticed this.
“Come on, sit on my lap.” The girl did so, ambling up and plopping down. Her mother wrapped her arms around her, squeezing her tightly. “A lot of weird people will come and go. Your mumma has a very different job. She’s not like most mummas. Just like you’re not like most girls.”
“I’m special.” The little girl said breathily, as if that statement alone contained some kind of magic.
“Yes you are, my little rascal.” Sydney squeezed tighter, rocking the girl a bit in the circle of her arms. “And because you’re special, special people will be a part of your life. Mumma wouldn’t ever bring in someone who would hurt you.”
The girl looked up into her mother’s eyes and grey eyes met blue in a rare, tender moment. Despite the natural rapport between this mother and daughter, these moments were few and far between. Sydney Anne Feenicks had a tendency to not be around. And her daughter, Sydney Asher Lee Feenicks, was left to her own devices most days. It was undeniable that this child revered her mother – her only parent – but at the same time, was aware she knew nothing about her.
“I’m going back to school tomorrow, right?” Little Sydney finally asked, her gaze turning inquisitive.
Sydney’s slight smile faltered, and she shook her head. “The weird man is here to help us move. We’re going somewhere new. Isn’t that exciting?”
The child didn’t answer that. “But I didn’t make any friends this time! You said we could move after I made friends!”
“We’ve been here for six months.” Sydney’s gaze turned scrutinizing. “You didn’t make any friends at all?”
“No.” The girl curled against her mother, her expression falling. Sadness clouded her eyes. “Nobody talks to me after what I did to Leslie.”
She could feel her mother sigh before she heard it. Sydney ran her fingers through her daughter’s black hair, brushing it out of her face. “That’s why we’re moving. So you have someone to talk to. You just need to stop hurting people.”
“Wasn’t doing anything wrong.” The girl moped. “And they put it back on.”
Sydney didn’t say anything after that point. She held the child until she fell asleep, and when she heard little snores, she scooped the child up and carried her to her own room, tucking her in as gently and lovingly as she could. But even in her tenderness, the girl was roused to wakefulness again, having never been a deep sleeper. She watched her mother slip out of the room and heard her enter her bedroom next door. She listened.
“Gary, she’s asleep.”
“You mean ‘it’. It’s asleep.” A man’s groggy voice answered, along with a yawn.
“Don’t do this.” Her mother’s voice grew sharp, defensive.
“Syd, you’re not its mother. Don’t act like it. It will never be normal.” There was a pause. “Whatever you did to it, it’s not like the others.”
“You came all the way back just to tell me that.”
“I came here to help you move. And to tell you that thirty-nine died.”
“No.”
“Yeah. Didn’t even make it past the initial stages. Never even got to cry. Just a fucking plant.”
Another pause, this time long and almost painful. “Mandrake root isn’t easy to come by. Not in combination with the semen.”
“I don’t know what you did to keep this one alive, Syd.”
The bed creaked; she was probably joining him, folding her arms behind her head like she usually did before she fell asleep completely. “I don’t know. It could have been the body. I’ve never used a convicted criminal’s semen on any other root. Maybe he…I don’t know…maybe there was something in him genetically that the others didn’t have.”
“DNA isn’t your problem.” The man argued softly. “You did something to make this one live. And here it is. And it’s not like what we imagined it would be.”
“She.” Her mother stressed, and the girl could hear her growing angry. “She’s my daughter.”
“No, she’s not, Syd. She’s your project. And one day she’ll learn that.”
“Not any day soon.” Her mother said, now sounding exhausted. “Go to sleep, Gary.”
“Go to sleep, Syd.”
Wake up, Sal.
~*~*~
His eyes flickered open. He would have groaned, but his entire body ached the moment he returned to consciousness. He felt like he’d been running through a desert for three days straight.
But it wasn’t his physical pain that kept him curled up in the tight ball he’d found himself in. No. Not that at all.
That woman. His mother? But she wasn’t. She…
He didn’t understand. He knew he was different. But not even human-born? His fists curled in the soil, his throat still sore from vomiting and choking. But he laughed. Rolled onto his back. Laughed some more. Wanted to cry.
Couldn’t cry.
Couldn’t get teary-eyed.
Couldn’t get misty-eyed.
Could only laugh.
“You stupid…you stupid cunt.”
There was flattery in that title, because he only reserved that name for the lowest of the low. This Sydney Feenicks. His creator? His mother?
Then what did that make him? The grin was plastered on his face. Not some Frankenstein. He’d never live that one down. No. There had to be a name for it.
Something other than Sydney.
Sydney Asher Lee Feenicks.
Sal almost laughed again. He remembered waking up one morning at thirteen years old – the first day of his life. He had no memories. He had pieced together what little he had remembered.
It all began to make sense.
His initials. How fucking obvious was that. Feenicks. Phoenix.
Was this some sort of sick creative writing project? Rascal “Sal” Phoenix.
And suddenly it all made sense.
It just…astonished him…that of all the names he chose to forget, it happened to be the name given to him by his…
Sydney.
“It’s too late now.” Sal finally muttered, leaning up against the tree. “I’m already screwed. Might as well see it out.”
He shuffled down, wrapped his arms around himself, and closed his eyes, surrendering.
~*~*~
Eleven.
That was how old she was when the real trouble started. This time, it wasn’t about the archery club her mother withdrew her from because she hit the target perfectly all fifteen times. It wasn’t about the squirrels and raccoons she killed heartlessly and brought home to her mother, who ended up making them into stews after her initial disgust. It wasn’t about the missing fingers of other children, or the missing pets of the next-door neighbors, or the missing lack of compassion in young Sydney’s personality.
Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. And her mother didn’t know what it was. She hadn’t been raised to behave this way. While she’d never been exactly the mother the other sort of children had, she had always been present in this girl’s life.
“Maggie started her period today.” Young Syd said at the dinner table one night. Her mother couldn’t cook well, but she was skilled at making soup.
Sydney looked up and frowned, worry lines having increased substantially over the years. “She’s only eleven.”
“Twelve. She turned twelve last week.” Her daughter corrected casually. “She had a nice birthday party.”
“Oh?” Sydney stared at her daughter. “You were invited?”
The girl swallowed a spoonful of her soup. “No. But it was nice.”
Sydney’s gaze did not lessen, did not lighten, and she again grew concerned. This had been all too common with her only child. “Gary’s coming to town next week. He’s going to help us move.”
“Boys have a penis and girls have a vagina.”
Sydney almost choked on the soup she’d just stuck into her mouth. Swallowing quickly, she wiped her mouth and glared at her daughter accusingly. “What was that?”
“Boys have a penis. Girls have a vagina.” The raven-haired girl said calmly. “I wonder when I’ll start my period.” She paused, sighed. “What’s it like to be a boy?”
Sydney struggled to keep from yelling at her daughter. “I don’t know.”
“I’d like to be a boy. Girls are really soft and gooey.”
“That’s what you are and you can’t change that, you little rascal.” She said evenly, trying to coolly play things off.
“I don’t think that’s fair.”
Shaking her head, she answered: “It’s not your place to decide.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to wait to be a woman.”
Unfortunately, that only would deflect her daughter’s issues for a time, for she really didn’t have any female parts at all. She wasn’t female. She had functioning glands, but they didn’t emit the correct hormones. Her organs were missing. She simply was a sexless being. But Sydney had never told her that.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, Mumma. I didn’t do anything.”
~*~*~
Ever since that conversation, things grew strained between the pair. Gary came and helped them move for the eleventh time. He and her mother would pack the equipment in the basement when she was asleep, because her mother said it would be dangerous if it broke and she was nearby. But little Syd knew she had a laboratory of some kind down there. She would see books with odd symbols on the kitchen counter, or would smell strange scents coming up from the basement. Sometimes even weird noises.
Syd wouldn’t ask and Sydney wouldn’t mention it. Sydney herself was growing more aggressive in her behavior, taking out her frustrations on her daughter. While the girl didn’t feel hurt or emotionally afflicted anymore, it did still stun her that her mother would lash out at her. Especially over the simplest of questions.
“Mom, can I go out?”
“No.”
“I have a friend, and he’s –”
“I said no.”
“But his parents can –”
“He doesn’t have parents because he doesn’t exist, Syd.”
“You don’t know that for sure!”
That was usually when Sydney rounded on her daughter, slapping her across the face. Her child would stumble back, but she didn’t fall and she didn’t cry. Rather, she sneered up at her mother, her hand clutching her red cheek.
“Did I say something wrong?”
Sydney would recoil then, both ashamed of what she had done and flabbergasted that her daughter was taking that tone with her. “Baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you. It’s just –”
“Oh, I know.” The child cut her off, her steel grey eyes grinning at her. “I’m special.”
“Yes, you’re special.” The redhead’s shame began to double, triple. “You’re so special.” She reached out, then, out of fear and worry, and grabbed her daughter, hugging her tight. “Please tell me your friend’s name. What will you two do?”
The girl hugged her mother back, but her face never softened. “His name is Roger. His daddy’s going to take us to the shooting range.” She pulled out of her mother’s embrace. “Remember how good I was with archery?”
Sydney ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair, growing internally more frantic by the second. “Yes, I remember. You…you be careful when you go today, okay? Don’t hit the target every time. Can you miss, just once? Just once for Mumma?”
It was then the woman noticed her daughter’s eyes were changed somehow. She looked twisted, physically distorted. There was something haunting about the way she smiled at her mother. “You know I can’t do that, Mom. I’m special and they need to know that.”
~*~*~
Tensions rose so high following that encounter that the relationship between Sydney and her daughter never recovered. Instead of trying to reach her troubled child, the redhead dedicated herself to her work, having several fellow alchemists arrive from time to time in the hopes of creating another child – a child that would be able to thrive without the semen of a serial killer fueling its lifeforce. She’d already been revered by the others for successfully “growing” her homunculus. And the longer Sydney ignored her daughter, the more trouble the child got into.
Neighbors began filing reports against them, citing break-ins and thefts. In school, she was placed in a special program because none of the teachers would take her after she gutted the science teacher’s frog, pulled it apart, and pinned it to the chalkboard, boldly stating that it was a makeshift Rorschach test. When nobody answered her inquiry of, “What does that look like to you?”, she proceeded to go on a rampage, sticking the extra tacks into the shoulder of the security guard who came and carried her away.
Sydney had been informed of the incident, but never attended the principal’s meeting.
Gary came by more often than not carrying boxes full of things the girl had never seen before. He wouldn’t even look at her at this point. She knew he was attractive, and she could see how others would faun over him. But all she could do was stare. He was an object, just like the boys in school were. Just like the girls were. Humans were nothing more than flesh-coated weapons.
Speaking of, the girl was slowly beginning to believe she wasn’t female at all. She was nearing her thirteenth birthday and she was as straight as a board. There were nights she would stand facing the bathroom mirror, naked, searching for any signs of development. There was no forming of breasts, no rounding of hips, no pubic hair. And her mother, when she did corner her, said nothing at all about it.
Young Sydney had never forgotten that conversation between her mother and Gary all those years ago. There had been nagging suspicions, but she had, for the love of her mother, tried to see past them. But when she knew she would never have her mother’s undivided love and attention ever again, and when she knew that she was different from the others, the girl was convinced that things needed to change.
And they were going to, whether her mother liked it or not.
~*~*~
The night of her thirteenth birthday – a birthday that was forgotten by all but the girl herself – young Sydney dressed in black slacks, a black sweater, and black sneakers. It wasn’t too uncommon of her to wear black clothes now. They were plain and simple and didn’t catch anyone’s eye. They suited her in that the helped her fade out into the background until she wanted to be noticed. And when she wanted to be noticed, she made everyone aware of who she was, what she was doing, and why she was doing it. She didn’t like being ignored.
And that night, she was going to let her mother know it.
She’d stolen a pistol from the shooting range when one of the older gentlemen wasn’t looking. Nobody had ever thought to check the contents of a twelve-year-old girl’s purse, and she had managed to sneak out of there with a full magazine. Since that day, it had been tucked in one of her dresser drawers. It brought her comfort; it brought her joy. She had a gift. And this gift made her special.
She waited in the living room for her mother to come upstairs with Gary. They were chatting amicably – they had some sort of breakthrough. Sixty-two was alive and developing human characteristics. They thought she’d gone to bed.
So it was a rather unpleasant surprise when she stood up and they spotted her, their happy expressions transforming into looks of horror.
“Hey, rascal!” Gary tried to fix a friendly expression, but it failed miserably. “What are you doing up so late? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Eerily monotone, Sydney looked at him. “Couldn’t sleep. Had nightmares about you dying.”
He chuckled uneasily as her mother watched, frozen in her spot. “Now, you’ll never have to worry about that. I’ll always be here.”
“That’s why it was a nightmare.” Sydney answered, whipping out her pistol. Neither Gary nor her mother had adequate time to react before the girl pulled the trigger. The red-haired woman shrieked in terror as her friend collapsed to the floor, a hole the size of a golf ball oozing blood out of the back of his head. Sydney saw his exposed brains and watched intently as it, and blood and other fluids, drained out of him.
Her mother looked about ready to faint, having grabbed the table chair, her hands shaking.
“S-Sydney! Sydney, what did you do!”
“He had it coming. He kept secrets from me.” Her eyes finally lifted and she stared directly at her mother. “You did too, Mumma.”
At that, she fell to her knees, her calves drenched in the blood of the dead man beside her. “B-Baby…you have to understand, I did it to protect you!”
“From what?” She cocked her head, an almost precious grin on her face. “Didn’t think I could take it? C’mon now, what do I look like to you? An idiot? You kept a lot from me. Special, huh? More like inhuman.”
“Y-You’re a homunculus.” The woman began spouting as fast as she could, as if explaining things now would make a difference. “I’m not your mother, but I wanted to be. I wanted to raise you like a normal girl.”
“But Mom!” Sydney whined mockingly. “I thought I was special! Keeping me from others, moving me around, keeping secrets? How normal did you expect me to be?”
“I…” Tears started to roll down her mother’s eyes. “I tried my best…”
“Until you stopped trying altogether.”
“P-P-Please, baby, I love you… You know that. I love you.”
I love you.
Sydney’s eyes softened and she lowered the gun, approaching her mother and getting on her knees. Then she pulled her mother to her, holding her tight. Pressing her mouth against her ear, she whispered harshly: “It’s been four years, two months, and nineteen days since you last said that to me. Amazing timing you have there.”
She could feel her mother shaking, panicking, breaking down. It wasn’t so much about the gun now. It was about the fact that Sydney Anne Feenicks once believed she was immune to her homunculus’ threats because she was the only person in its life that mattered. She was proven wrong tonight. They had been right. Gary had been right. She should have just killed it as soon as it started exhibiting sociopathic tendencies. She really had created a monster.
“I’m your m-mother…” She tried to be compassionate, desperately holding her daughter’s face between her hands. “You mean everything to me. I love you.”
Sydney chuckled, pressing her forehead to her mother’s, grey eyes piercing blue ones. “I wish I could say it back. Oh, you have no idea. No idea.” She ran one of her own hands down her mother’s tear-streaked cheek. “I’d thank you for giving me life. But I don’t even have that. Do you want your daughter back? Do you want me to be the sweet, innocent child I used to be? Do you want me to be compassionate?”
Her mother shook her head roughly, her eyes squinting as more tears poured out of her eyes. She whimpered slightly before speaking, her soul pouring into her words. “Yes, p-please… Please be my d-daughter again.”
Smiling sadly, Sydney pressed a kiss to her mother’s forehead. “Your daughter never left.” She raised the pistol to her mother’s temple. “My last act of compassion is for you. Goodbye, Mother.”
Sydney Anne Feenick’s eyes widened only a fraction before the bullet shot threw her cranium, plowing out the other side of her head in a tornado of blood and bone. She was dead instantly.
The homunculus let go of the body as it slid to the floor next to the other one. This time, the blood blended with her dead mother’s hair seamlessly, and she leaned down, wiping the hair out of her face, observing the exit wound. She could see all the way through to the floor.
She felt no remorse. No guilt. She fingered the hole in her mother’s head calmly, feeling nothing but curiosity.
Standing up, kicking the body, she went into the kitchen, grabbing a lighter out of one of the drawers. She then grabbed a piece of paper from a nearby notepad and ripped it out. She lit the paper, leaned over her mother’s body, and shoved the burning article into the hole in her mother’s head. It took a bit of an effort, but it was thrilling to watch her mother’s head melt from the inside out until the whole thing burst into flames. When she could no longer identity her face, she went to the curtains and torched them.
With the house burning down around her, the homunculus made peace with herself, sneaking into the nearby woods. She ran for hours upon hours, through neighborhoods and shopping malls, till she came to an abandoned park in another forest. Laying her head against a tree stump, the girl fell asleep, exhausted.
When she woke up the next morning, she remembered nothing.
~*~*~
Moments after the memory ended, Sal blinked, waking up. This time he wasn’t grinning. A joke was not on the tip of his tongue. His eyes weren’t glowing with mirth, fake or otherwise.
Rather, he just sat there. Mute and numb, mulling over everything he’d just remembered. It made sense. It all made sense. His sadistic nature, how he randomly discovered his ability to change sexes when he was fifteen years old, his unnatural fascination with missile weapons, particularly guns, and the overwhelming glee he felt at killing useless masses of human beings – everything slowly began to fit.
That woman. She deserved it. Look at what she had done to him. What he was. What he became. She made him, she praised him, she broke him. He flexed his hands, wanting desperately to see her again. Have her lying on the floor before him. He wanted to break every bone in her body. Step on her until her chest was concave. Turn her into a toad and pin her to the chalkboard. Break her fingers. Put her in the stews.
She deserved to die a thousand times over. Every victim since her deserved to die. Roger, ten years later, had deserved to die, too. Sal deserved to kill them all.
He didn’t deserve to die.
He earned it.
Sydney Asher Lee Feenicks. Her Rascal.
That was the big secret. And this time – this time, he wouldn’t be able to forget it. Not like last time.
He wasn’t alive. He was in existence. He was better than humans. He had the right to do as he pleased. He obeyed no laws. He made the decisions. He would be the death of himself.
Groaning, he put his face in his hands. “They can’t know. Let them laugh. And point. I’ve got better things to do than be some fucking victim.” A sad chuckle did pass his lips then. “Just wouldn’t be the Sal we’re used to, would it.”
Standing up, he brushed himself off, completely composed again. Sandalphon had entered the realm. Metatron was getting better and Lucifer had won this round. He’d gotten all the information he needed. He needed to get out of Asgard.
Whistling jovially, Sal returned to the white manor and returned to his room, choosing not to sleep for the rest of the night. Not that he could have.
It is likely one views this reaction as anti-climactic. But one must also understand that Sal, in essence, is a weapon. By choice and by product. And a weapon has no time to mourn, no time to question, and no time to suffer. A weapon operates until its usefulness has been depleted. A weapon cannot afford the time to care.