Chapter Sixteen- Weight of the truth
The sterile air of Brock's lab did little to cleanse the lingering scent of ozone and despair. Hendrix sat on the edge of a cot, the rough fabric of her blood-red gown a stark contrast to the pristine white of the room. Her hands, still bearing faint traces of spectral glow, rested on her lap, fingers unconsciously tracing patterns on the fabric. Eighty millennia. The weight of it pressed down on her, a physical burden heavier than any armor. Amos was alive, yes, but he was a ghost in his own skin, a fractured being teetering on the edge of oblivion. The thought gnawed at her, a familiar ache that had become a constant companion.
Brock, hunched over a console that hummed with arcane energy, finally glanced up. His eyes, usually bright with scientific curiosity, were shadowed with exhaustion. "Sisyphus has been surprisingly helpful, calming Amos during his… episodes," he admitted, his voice rough. "I'm close to figuring out what's holding Amos back."
The door chimed, and Sisyphus sauntered in, a whirlwind of chaotic energy. His grin, wide and predatory, seemed to light up the sterile room. "Ah, Miss Hendrix! A pleasure. I hear you're Amos's lover?"
Hendrix’s eyes flared, a sickly, spectral glow coiling beneath the surface. Her blood-red gown seemed to twist unnaturally, as if stitched from shadow itself. In her hand, a fan unfolded, its blades jagged, blackened metal, serrated like the teeth of some long-dead predator, glinting with a hunger all their own. She moved with a predatory elegance, beautiful and monstrous. "I am," she replied, her voice a low, dangerous hum.
"As well as the mother of his children. Though right now, I'm not sure of much else." Her gaze fixed on Brock, a predator mourning a man who was not yet gone, a mother trembling at the thought that her children may never truly know their father.
"Do you truly believe the Amos we once knew still lingers inside him? Or has he rotted away from within, leaving only a twisted thing, a hunger-wracked hollow craving nothing but blood and revenge?"
Sisyphus chuckled, cracking his knuckles. "That angel of old bone? It's been quite some time but I'd say so. In fact, he seems most like himself when he's fighting! He has the fighting spirit of a true warrior, always seems calm during a fight, and he has quite a way with words… and when I mean words I mean FISTS!" He laughed loudly, while Brock shook his head dismissively.
Brock paused, his fingers flying across the console. "Wait, Sisyphus, you said Amos is more docile when fighting?"
"Yes! He listens, has a warm energy. It's like he's a different person. I see him as my own child, really. Training him has been nice; it's a different flow than just fighting," Sisyphus explained.
Brock's eyes widened, a frantic energy seizing him. "That's it! He fights like he’s training back in Heaven! It brings him back! How could I have been so stupid!" He began frantically shuffling papers, muttering to himself. "Do you understand what's happening here, Sisyphus?" Hendrix leaned closer, her voice a low, intense whisper.
Sisyphus looked confused, glancing between Hendrix and Brock's excited rant. "Nope, not a clue," he admitted. "But that's Brock for you... give him time, and he'll figure out the secrets of the world and how to bring someone back from the dead."
“Sisyphus, I need you to list every power Amos has used since he fought you,” Brock said urgently, rifling through his papers. “If I’m right, if we can guide him to use certain abilities, he might adapt enough to become himself again. Healing is definitely his weakest skill, but he can use it… or, wait, hold on.” Brock’s eyes narrowed as he scanned his notes. “Healing… healing… it wasn’t originally his power, obviously. But… Hendrix, do you remember the archangel Raphael? What exactly was his ability?”
Hendrix paused, recalling the angel. “Raphael? Yes… a man of quiet poise and grace. If I’m not mistaken, he could heal others, drawing life force from the world around him.” Her voice softened with memory, “He was often timid, but stern when it mattered. A good heart beneath it all.”
Brock nodded slowly, piecing it together. “That’s it. Amos was fine at the start of the fight, but after Raphael’s intervention, everything went downhill. He’d taken heavy damage by then and must have tried to heal himself. But because he hadn’t mastered that ability, the healing didn’t work properly. I think… this is a stretch, but what if instead of healing his wounds, that power tried to heal the pain in his soul?”
He looked up, eyes blazing with sudden clarity. “Think about it, Amos was broken, lost, desperate. When he tried to heal himself, instead of mending flesh and bone, he ended up rebuilding his anger, his rage, his suffering.” Brock took a breath, trying to piece together this loose theory. “That pain… the pain became his new form. If- If he’s growing bigger and stronger now, it means he’s healing himself, just not physically. Whenever I was there, I was helping him, so he didn’t need to rely on Raphael’s flawed healing. But now, without that connection, he’s defaulting to the only ability he knows… and it’s tearing him apart from the inside.”
"So, how do we stop Amos from slowly destroying himself?" Hendrix asked, her voice a low, intense whisper, trying to draw a conclusion from Brock's frantic explanation. "That's as much as I've gathered from your… rant."
Brock sighed, rubbing his temples. "It's... complicated. We have three options, really. We can let him keep going and hope he figures out how to use the ability properly on his own. Or, we find a new way for him to heal himself. The third option… I could try to remove his core. But there's no guarantee he'd survive without it. Unlike me and the other Guardian Angels, our cores gave us power, strength. His core gave him life. He would have died without it. And given how long it's been… that core has truly become a part of him. It's his heart, his engine, keeping him going."
Sisyphus grinned, folding his arms with a proud flourish. "I've got a better idea, a simple one. You're smart, Brock, and you made that armor that housed you for years. Why not make an armor that houses him? Maybe it could drain that excess energy he's generating, that rage build-up, so he can heal as much as he needs to. All that anger and pain could be channeled into a power source for the armor. What's the name of that comic you love reading about that guy in full red and gold armor?"
Brock blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before a slow grin spread. "My Iron Man comics? I... actually... hmm... that could work! Allowing that energy to go somewhere would negate the effects of him healing his soul… but I would need a special type of metal… one that can expand and take a heavy amount of weight, normal angelic steel won't cut it. I mean literally normal steel can't harm him.”
“He can't be harmed by normal angelic weapons? Well that outta pose an issue for any who dares to harm him,” Hendrix expressed her concerns, but a flicker of hope ignited within her at the thought of Amos being so formidable.
“It’s one of his abilities, he is pretty smart, when it comes to most things. Even when his mind isn't fully there he puts others before himself… Give him a choice, he would put his life on the line to save anyone or take a life to save someone. It's… Just the man Amos is.”
“I’ll work on some drafts for the armor, until then try to keep Amos out of harm’s way and don't let him use his healing ability at all, I don't care how small he gets hurt, don't even let him heal a paper cut with his ability, got it? I'll leave watching him to you, Hendrix… Sisyphus, you're gonna help me create the suit and safety measures as you know Amos physically."
A long time ago in heaven
“Amos, tell me… what do you see when you look at me?” Esoghene asked as they walked through the garden, surrounded by flowers and fluttering butterflies.
Amos hesitated, his voice soft and uneven, as if piecing together fragments of a thought. “I… I don’t really know how to say it… You’re… you’re like… a light, but not just light. More like… a voice that doesn’t speak, but still guides. You’re… a divine being, yes, but not distant. You carry… a weight, a burden no one else could bear. You speak for a god who stays silent, and yet you reach out to those lost in the dark.”
He reached out, gently brushing a fallen leaf from her cheek, his eyes searching hers. “You care… even for the smallest things. The creatures that belong, and those who don’t. You help them find who they are… not who they were, or what they’ve done, but who they’re becoming. It’s like… you hold all their broken pieces and try to make something whole again.”
His words faltered, trailing off as if the right ones were just out of reach. “I don’t know… who else could carry that… that kind of love. It’s heavy, but you wear it like armor. Like you’re both the healer and the wound.”
A grin spread across Esoghene’s face before she burst out laughing, clutching her stomach as her cheeks flushed bright red. “O-oh my god, hahaha! You sounded so Soft! Hahaha!”
“H-HEY! D-don’t laugh!” Amos stammered, clearly flustered by her reaction. He turned away, his voice sharp but embarrassed. “Next time, I won’t answer you at all, how about that!”
“N-no, don’t do that!” Esoghene gasped between laughs, though she couldn’t stop herself. She stepped closer and lightly tapped his armor, finally settling down. “Ah, oh man… haha, you’re funny, Amos… Heh. But…My father keeps pushing you away, sending you to guard further and further gates…” Her voice softened as she rested her head gently on his shoulder.
“Yeah, but I don’t think that’s gonna stop us,” Amos replied with quiet confidence. “Realistically, who is your father to stop you from coming to see me? You are the Speaker of God… I’m limited, though, being a guardian angel. Set to watch the gates of all things, while the rest of my brothers and sisters do the actual work.” His tone held a clear understanding of the heavenly hierarchy and the powers above him.
“There you both are…” Sebastian’s voice interrupted as he landed gracefully by the garden entrance. “Sneaking off to chat like this again… You’re lucky I don’t like Michael enough to tattle-tale. When he finds you guys, you’re both going to get in trouble, or an earful. Preaching more than Gabriel, and he’s a messenger…”
“My father just has a way with words, Seb,” Esoghene said with a warm smile that seemed to brighten the whole garden. “But it comes from a place of care. He loves all the angels, technically, everyone is his nephew or niece, if not his own child.”
“Heh, and there you go, sis, making everything better with a few words again,” Sebastian chuckled. “No one can beat you when you’re like that. And Amos… ugh, I can’t stop you, can I?”
“Well, she’s the one who brought me here,” Amos said jokingly, “and I can’t deny the words of my superiors, can I? That’d be against heavenly law.” His comment made Esoghene laugh again.
“That’s true,” Esoghene nodded. “He and you are both supposed to listen to me or do as I say. Even if he’s my father, he’s only an archangel… I’m the Speaker of God. Technically, I outrank him in orders.”
Sebastian sat down with a grunt. “Yeah, yeah, we must follow the hierarchy… and our commandments.”
“Commandments?” Esoghene asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. She had never heard anything about commandments before.
“Our Seven Commandments,” Amos said, recalling the solemn vows they all had made. “A set of rules we guardian angels live by.”
Everen raised his blade, a glass of wine in his other hand. “Cherish the bonds of love and affection, for they bring warmth and meaning to your life. Honor the Bonds of Brotherhood!”
Theron, his gilded rings and jewels clinking softly, lifted his golden sword beside Everen’s. “Gather your strength and resources not for selfish gain, but to uplift your brothers and the realm you guard. Pursue Abundance to Empower the Many!”
Brock struggled slightly but managed to raise his sword next to Everen and Theron. “C-Celebrate each victory among your k-kin, for their triumphs are the shield that guards your shared cause. To Rejoice in the Glory of Your B-brothers!”
Liora yawned mid-sentence, her eyes barely open, but her voice remained clear. She lifted her sword with the rest. “Withdraw when needed to heal and reflect, for only a rested warrior can stand firm in the trials ahead. To Rest to Renew Your Spirit and Mind.”
Calian, mouth full of food, swallowed hastily before raising his sword. “Share in the bounty of your victories and the gifts of creation, strengthening bonds through joy and thankfulness. To Feast Together in Gratitude and Fellowship!”
Sebastian’s voice boomed with authority, filling the garden with power and pride. He lifted his sword alongside the others, leaving one spot open. “When darkness threatens, wield your wrath as a blazing sword to purge corruption and defend the light. Always Let Righteous Fury Fuel Your Resolve.”
He turned to Amos with a whisper, “...Amos… its your turn”
Amos, seemingly uninterested at first, stepped forward, searching for the right words. His voice was uncertain but sincere as he lifted his sword with his brothers and sisters. “Stand tall and unwavering, for your honor and confidence, inspire courage in those who follow. To… uh… Carry Yourself with Unyielding Pride.”
Laughter erupted around him as everyone lowered their swords into their sheaths. Everen approached with a lighthearted grin, handing Amos a glass of wine.
“Amos, are you sure you weren’t a scholar in your human days? Such a way with words, bro.”
“Let loose more often,” Everen added warmly. “You’re at your best when you’re yourself. Don’t let anyone make you someone you’re not, okay? If they try, me and my clones will beat them up. Now come on, let’s PARTY!”
The large doors suddenly swung open, and Michael stormed in, anger etched across his face. As he yelled, everyone scattered like roaches, laughing and smiling all the while, clearly this was a meeting that wasn’t meant to happen.
“YOU GOD DAMN KIDS!” Michael bellowed, trying to catch up with the guardian angels, but they easily outran him and disappeared from sight.
“Man, he is so gonna kick my ass at our next meeting…” Sebastian sighed, catching his breath with the others.
“Wait, so you all had a secret party in my father’s workroom? And ran from him when he found you? Where are my guardian angels, you imposters?” Esoghene laughed, imagining everyone fleeing from her father.
“Yeah, it wasn’t fun. I got stuck with study duty for a whole week…” Amos muttered, recalling the harsh punishment of reorganizing the sacred library, an archive as old as time itself.
“Brock loved that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his eyes light up more than that trip to the archive,” Sebastian said fondly, savoring the memory of Brock stepping out of his timid shell for once.
Brock was engrossed in books on medical science when Alurion entered the room.
“You, uh… called for me, Brock? Wait, would I call you uncle if you’re my father’s brother?” Alurion asked, pondering their complicated family ties, knowing a bit more about Amos and Brock’s past.
“Hm? Oh yeah… thanks for coming. Call me whatever you want, I’m used to being called a lot of names,” Brock replied with a small smile. “Listen, I know you have a lot of questions… and since you’ve been here, probably even more. But I promise you, for real this time, I need you to put your faith in me one last time.”
Brock dropped to one knee, producing a small box from his pocket. He placed his hands gently on Alurion’s shoulders.
“Listen… in the short time you’ve been here, I’ve seen how much you care for your mother. I’ve seen how much you care for Amos and Dèmine, and now Atlas and Mara. It’s… respectable. I need you to hold onto that. And when the time comes, I need you to trust me. It will hurt. It will be painful. But know this, everything I’m asking is for your mother’s sake and Amos’s.
When this is all over, I promise I’ll sit down with you and explain everything, clearly, in vivid detail. Everything I know. Things your mother may know but has kept from you. If I know it, I’ll tell you. I swear on my soul.
But for now, I just need your word. When the time comes, you will help me, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how painful it gets. You will push through and do what’s necessary to help Amos, because helping Amos will help your mother. And I can see how much you care for her, you live for her.
So keep doing that. That’s why I’m asking you, not your sister. She wouldn’t be able to do what’s needed. But I know you will.
So listen closely, because I’ll only say this once...”
“Brock… I don’t mean to sound rude, but, how many people live in your lab?” Hendrix asked, trailing after him. Even she was starting to question the absurdity of how many doors in this place had a “surprise” behind them.
“People end up here because they’ve got nowhere else,” Brock said without looking back. “And, frankly, it’s better than being alone.” His mouth twitched. “Even if most of them are irritating pieces of shit.”
Hendrix’s fan snapped open with a crisp click. “If you consider them so worthless, why tolerate them? They slow you down. They drain resources. If power is what you want, then make it. A mind like yours shouldn’t be shackled by dead weight.”
Brock paused mid-step, genuinely caught off guard. “...Was that a compliment?”
“It was not a compliment,” Hendrix said instantly, lifting her fan to hide the lower half of her face. “Do not misinterpret me.”
Brock stared at her for a beat, decided not to fight that battle, and continued down the corridor. He stopped at a massive iron door, pitted, banded, old enough to feel offended by time, and rapped on it with his knuckles.
Hendrix frowned. “Who are we meeting, Brock?”
“Uh-“ Brock hesitated, as if the explanation itself might bite. “Hard to explain out here.”
Locks clanked. Metal groaned. The door peeled open just enough for a lungful of stale air to escape.
Dust rolled out in a thick wave as if the room had been sealed for years. The lights inside struggled, then steadied, revealing a shape in the haze.
A shadow, low to the ground.
Then a voice slid through the dust, quiet, measured, and heavy enough to make the hallway feel smaller.
“The Chain Maker,” it said. Not an introduction. A verdict. “That is what you will call me.”
As the dust thinned, the figure came into view.
Small. Child-sized, almost.
And yet everything about him was wrong in the way predators are wrong when they’re too calm. Long dreads fell past his shoulders, corded and segmented like ribbon cable, each lock ending in a dark spike that caught the light like a blade.
The silence that followed was loud. Hendrix had expected towering horns, a grand silhouette, something theatrical.
And somehow it was worse.
Hendrix’s lips parted. “You’re…”
She took one step forward.
The Chain Maker’s head tilted.
His “hair” moved, alive, quick, precise. A single spiked dread snapped forward and stopped a breath away from Hendrix’s face.
The Chain Maker’s voice lowered, venom made articulate. “Part Goetia,” he murmured, as if spitting the word was a habit. “Yeah. What’s it to you, gold-blood?”
Brock raised both hands immediately. “Chain, calm down. She’s not an enemy. And she’s not an angel anymore.”
The Chain Maker didn’t even look at Brock. His attention stayed locked on Hendrix like she was a stain on the world.
“You lie,” he said softly.
The spike trembled closer, barely, deliberately, close enough that Hendrix could feel the air shift. “I can smell it. Old. Buried. Almost forgotten.” His tone sharpened into something cruelly pleased. “But I know that stench. It clings.”
His dreads coiled and flexed like restrained chains.
“And it clings to you too, Brock.” The Chain Maker’s voice turned quiet in the way threats do when they don’t need volume. “Did you forget what you are? What were you made under?”
Brock’s jaw tightened. “Chain-“
“Fine,” the Chain Maker cut in, sudden and cold. He snapped his hair back as if retracting a weapon. “Enter. But don’t touch my shit.”
He stepped back into the room, the spikes dragging faint lines through dust like claws. “And don’t mistake me for merciful,” he added, voice turning darker, almost amused. “I don’t care if you changed. I don’t care if you’re wearing blue blood now. I don’t care what story you tell yourself to sleep at night.”
His eyes flicked to Hendrix, sharp, contemptuous.
“You’re still what you are, bitch.”
Hendrix’s eyes narrow. She didn’t flinch, she refused to give him the satisfaction, but her voice came out thin with venom. “How did he know?”
Brock’s expression tightened, searching for words that didn’t exist. “He’s… what he said. Goetia. Smaller than average.”
He hesitated, then sighed like admitting it tasted bitter. “He’s been at the forefront of my technology and funding. Calling him a scientist is an insult. He’s-” Brock’s eyes flicked to the Chain Maker’s back. “He’s like me.”
“I’d call him my son,” Brock added, carefully, “but he’d kill me… then probably kill himself.”
The Chain Maker’s shoulders twitched, like he’d heard, and hated that he’d heard.
Brock continued, quieter, “If anyone can help me build that suit for Amos… it’s him.”
Hendrix’s fan tightened in her grip. “Then if all you need is to convince him, I’ll go. I should be watching Amos.”
Brock stepped in front of her before she could turn away. “I need you here for a reason.”
Hendrix’s eyes narrowed. “And that reason is?”
Brock glanced toward the Chain Maker, toward the wall of cables, the nest of machinery, the airless room that felt more like a coffin than a workshop.
“Because,” Brock said, voice lower now, “he’s not just angry. He’s sealed shut.”
He swallowed, the admission uncomfortable. “And he needs someone to talk to. Whether he admits it or not.”
Hendrix’s gaze flicked back to the Chain Maker.
The small figure stood with his back to them, hands already moving through wires like a surgeon moving through flesh, quick, exact, intimate. His dreads hung like a crown of sharpened restraints.
And the malice in the room wasn’t loud anymore.
Brock exhaled. “He never leaves this room. Doesn’t need oxygen like we do, so he can afford to live in a place no one else could stand.”
Hendrix’s voice dropped, careful now. “And you call him… Chain Maker.”
Behind them, without turning, the Chain Maker spoke again, quiet, flat, and somehow worse than shouting.
“Stop saying my title like it’s a nickname,” he said.
"What the hell do you want, Brock… You never come in here unless you need something from me. It better not be tests, because I’m DONE with the tests…” Malice dripped from the Chain Maker’s voice, a dark, viscous substance as a throne of jagged, obsidian-like material rose from the ground beneath him. He settled onto it, the shadows clinging to him like a second skin.
“Oooookay…” Brock sighed heavily, the sound thick with the weight of past encounters. “Yes, I do need your help… Let me put it into perspective… You want to forge a power suit? A suit of self-sustainment? Something… that can be controlled, if need be.”
“Control…” The Chain Maker’s voice was a low hiss, laced with a venom that seemed to curdle the very air. His dreadlocks, each tipped with a wicked spike, quivered with barely contained fury. “The idea is… intriguing… but it doesn’t explain the gold blood.” His gaze, sharp and predatory, fixed on Hendrix, who stood a few feet away, an unwelcome presence in his domain.
“Because I know you cracked and figured out an alloy that rivals even angelic steel…” Brock said, his voice dangerously cold, almost matching the Chain Maker’s malice, but with a raw, desperate edge. “…and it needs a golden one.”
The Chain Maker’s laughter was a dry, rasping sound, like chains dragged across stone. “...Of course you know… like before, you’ll claim MY ACHIEVEMENT AS YOUR OWN. It’s all you ever do! As smart as you are, Brock, you’re just a pathetic angel like the rest of your kind!” The words erupted from him, a torrent of pure, unadulterated rage. This was more than hatred; it was a darkness that had festered for eons, a malice far deeper than anything seen before. “No wonder your wife and daughter fell”
“THAT…” Brock Yells but cant find anything to say, he cant even argue because he knows himself… that the chain maker is right. Causing Brock to break, tears begin welling into his eyes and he clenches his fist in anger and looks down. “That wasn't my fault…”
“Really? Have you truly gone insane? It ALL was your fault… Your hunger for self preservation is what got them killed. You hid who you were, your very being from the one you loved and hid what you are from your own kin... your child… She didn't even know what she was. You are a disgrace, you bore the halo, wings, and blood, but you're no angel, you shouldn't even exist… You are a mock of what angels should be you dont deserve to be called an angel- YOU DONT DESERVE THE TITLE OR MEMORIES TO STAND NEXT TO AN ANGEL-
“ENOUGH!” Hendrix voice boomed echoing throughout the room
“All this fighting… it’s meaningless.”
Hendrix’s voice drips with quiet exhaustion, each word heavy as a funeral bell. “We are meant to stand together, gold blood or not.”
Slowly, almost reverently, she raises her fan. The metal blades bloom open with a soft, predatory whisper. For a moment, she simply stares at her own reflection in the steel.
Then she drags it across her arm.
The cut is clean. Deliberate.
Crimson spills forth in a dark, steady ribbon, not the radiant gold of heaven, but something painfully, irrevocably demonic. It patters against the floor like distant rain.
“I was an angel… once,” she murmurs, her voice hollowed by something old and broken. “The heavens made sure that part of me died.”
Her fingers tighten around the blood-slick fan. When her eyes lift again, they are sharp, but rimmed with a grief that never healed.
“So listen carefully,” she says, low and dangerous. “You will still your tongues and face what is coming at my side… help me bring back the old Amos…”
The fan snaps open with a violent metallic hiss.
“…or I will walk into the dark alone, and finish this myself.”
For a moment, the blood keeps falling.
Hendrix watches it with something dangerously close to resignation, as if she’s waiting for the world to prove her right.
A faint, treacherous glow flickers beneath her skin.
Light bleeds through the torn flesh, pale and unwelcome, like moonlight forcing its way through a grave crack. The wound begins to knit itself together before their eyes, slow at first, then faster, muscle, skin, and scarless perfection sealing as though the blade had never touched her.
“I told you,” she says quietly, but there’s something brittle in it now. Something that almost sounds like anger turned inward. “I am no longer an angel. I cannot die, the heavens make sure I cannot give up my punishment. They keep me alive, to torture me. Every. Single. Day.”
The last trace of the cut vanishes.
It clings to her arm like a ghost that refuses to leave.
Hendrix flexes her healed hand once, sharply, as if trying to shake the heavens themselves off her skin. When she looks back up, her eyes are darker than before, furious at the betrayal of her own body.
“…Don’t mistake this for mercy,” she adds, voice dropping into something cold enough to frost the air. “Even fallen things remember how to bleed.”
The fan snaps shut in her grip with a quiet, lethal click.
“So,” Hendrix says, stepping forward into the silence, “are you standing with me… or are you going to keep wasting what little time we have left?”
“... That's what you were… You were the speaker of god… tch… all high and mighty… just for your own laws to fall flat on the face they looked up to. Because you wanted… affection… became a need… Fine, I'm only doing this for Amos, I've seen his state… it isn't pretty… he deserves better than what he got. Now I still wont like you… but for our common ground we will work as allies… but before we do I must know. Why are you willing to tolerate this wrm?”
“I tolerate him because I know he can help bring my Amos back.” Hendrix spoke growing tired of this meaningless back and forth
“Heh- HAHAHAHA” The chained maker laughed in his throne as he quickly quieted himself. The old Amos? Sweetheart the peaceful and prideful man you knew is gone. He is dead. Died a long time ago, what you want is him to not be a monster… that I can give you, but bring back Amos to a state he wore when in heaven is long since pasted. But do dream of him being a humble man who cares to protect heaven and its laws. Even though that's not him. Go on brock… tell her why he's like that, The real reason… as a spineless coward you would know why he struggles to be a living creature anymore…”
Brock doesn't answer, he stays silent and falls to the floor holding his chest and breathing hard. Hendrix turns to him, becoming confused “What- What does he speak of brock?”
“Yes brock what do I speak of?” hendrix let me make you a deal, I'll tell you everything, in return I would like to get closer to that light of yours~ and do what I can to stabilize Amos”
The chain maker stands up and walks closer to Hendrix and Brock.
“What’s the catch?” Hendrix asks worriedly.
“No, I want the truth!! The real reason the first speaker of god fell! Who you truly are?! I just must know the reason for your existence down here…” The chain maker spoke with insanity revealing his true colors, someone who isn't meant to be played with, someone who holds nothing back, a being who only wants to understand.
The air was deathly still. Even the dust seemed afraid to move.
And when she spoke, the words tore themselves from her throat like something dying.
“Do you really think… the real reason I became a fallen angel… was because I fell in love?”
Her knees struck the ground with a hollow crack. Black tears spilled down her face in slow, burning trails, eating at her skin like acid.
“That’s not the reason. Not even close.”
Her shoulders trembled, not weak, but unraveling.
“The real reason…” she whispered, voice fraying at the edges, “is that I rewrote history. I found out what my father was doing. All the experiments he was concocting in the dark while Heaven sang his praises.”
A broken, manic laugh clawed its way out of her chest, sharp, wrong, wounded.
“Do you really think Amos and I met by chance? That we just happened to cross paths in that garden?”
Her blood-red eyes snapped upward, wild and glassy.
The word echoed like a funeral bell.
“He wasn’t meant to be there. I found the library. I found the ancient texts. And I used my power to rewrite everything that had EVER happened in Heaven.”
The black tears burned deeper, carving thin, smoking lines down her cheeks.
“I was never meant to hold the position they gave me. I was never meant to be the Speaker of God.”
Her fingers curled into the floor hard enough to crack stone.
“I was built to be a vessel. A hollow husk for my father to take when his own body inevitably gave out. Silent. Obedient. Empty.”
Her voice dropped to something fragile and horrifying.
“But I didn’t want to be empty. I wanted to be my own person.”
The shadows around her began to writhe.
“So I changed it. I rewrote history so I would be born as God’s vessel instead. I manipulated everyone. Every record. Every memory.”
Her glowing eyes locked onto Brock.
“I didn’t even understand what I was doing back then,” she admitted, softer now, almost childlike in its brokenness. “I was created as an empty husk. I didn’t have real feelings. I didn’t have real thoughts. I only knew what I was made to know.”
“I rewrote my father’s plans. I placed Amos in that garden. I made our meeting inevitable. I pretended I didn’t know him. I pretended I understood emotions.”
Her hands shook violently now.
“It wasn’t until they stripped me of the title I stole… that I finally understood what those emotions actually were.”
Her voice dropped to a raw whisper.
“And by then… it was too late.”
The air around her began to warp.
“I did love him,” she breathed, something fragile and ruined breaking through the madness. “God help me… I truly did…do…”
Her head bowed, black tears dripping steadily to the floor.
“I made mistakes I can never take back. If I had never rewritten anything… if I had just removed myself from the story…”
“None of you would be here.”
A pulse of black magic shuddered outward.
“None of you would have fallen.”
“None of you would be… dead.”
Dark energy erupted around her in violent waves, shadows screaming against the walls.
“I destroyed every ancient text that mentioned me before I fell into the void,” she continued, voice echoing unnaturally now. “I rewrote my own existence.”
Her gaze lifted slowly, filled with something far worse than madness.
“That’s why Heaven doesn’t know who I am anymore.”
A long, broken breath left her.
The magic around her began to spiral, unstable, grieving.
“My punishment…” she whispered, voice barely human now, “is to watch everything I caused continue to rot and spread.”
Her eyes flickered, grief, love, horror, all tangled together.
“Having children with Amos wasn’t why I fell.”
“The fact that he loved me… that I loved him back…”
Her voice finally shattered.
The shadows surged violently.
“I fell,” she breathed, hollow and ruined,
“because I tried to play God.”
Her voice cracks as the tears keep burning into her face, slowly eating her flesh. The smell of burning flesh fills the room.
The chain maker claps in astonishment before crouching down to Hendrix’s level and holding her by the chin “a creature who wants to be god… sounds like a certain someone… she shared her tea brock… it's your turn… and quit acting it's more pitiful then you…” The chain maker walks back to his throne and sits back down as Brock stands up wiping his tears away.
“Thank you Hendrix… I… I knew, bits and pieces but… I knew…” Brock held out a hand to Hendrix to help her up. She swats his hand away, standing on her own.
Her voice thins to something brittle, something on the verge of snapping.
The word curdles in her mouth.
“You burrowed through everything… through lies, through skin, through bone. You sat there with that hollow smile and watched me rot, didn’t you?”
She steps back. Her heels drag against the stone like they’re resisting the truth.
A breath fractures in her throat.
“You knew the whole time.”
Her eyes search Brock’s face, not for denial, but for the slick glisten of it. For the writhing thing beneath your skin, the parasite that wears his name like stolen silk.
“All those promises.” Her laugh is thin, jagged, glass scraping across marble. “You were already feeding. Already coiled in the dark, waiting for me to split open.”
She swallowed hard, tasting iron.
“You didn’t just lie… you nested. You made a home in my trust and chewed through it slowly. Deliberately.”
Her hands tremble, not from fear.
“So tell me, Brock…” she whispers, voice low and reverent, like a prayer spoken in a graveyard.
“When you looked at me… did you see an Angel?”
“Or just something soft enough to crawl inside? To eat from the inside out?”
Brock cant seem to find any words to sooth her worry to the chain maker speaks for him
“You don't need to worry about him. His only hope is survival… supposedly this is the furthest he's gone. And he plans to keep it that way. I do apologize for that act we did earlier. I didn't want to deceive you in such a way. Your past is well the past and you're now one of blue blood as I can smell… I will still hate you for having a history with heaven but it's clear that wasn't your choice… my life wasn't a choice either. Seems like its one common fucking struggle.”
“Wait, what about all the things you said… were they lies…?” Hendrix asked, whipping her tears away, Brock pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to Hendrix which she uses and gives back. “You're not supposed to have one of these…”
“It's my daughters… Was” Brock says taking the handkerchief back from hendrix
“Great you kids got your shit sorted? I would like to begin on this project. I mean creating a power suit for a monster as Amos is a fever I love to explore, and to open you up and see what makes you tik~” The chain maker speaks staring at hendrix with a look of what can only be fascination of her body
“Were older then you chain maker-” brock speaks before he is cut off by the chain maker
“And yet you act like a child. Her too, from what ive gathered your prone to temper tantrums… let's hurry before Amos gets a brain hemorrhage shall we?”
The throne behind the chain maker sinks into the ground and the wall of cables opens up to what seems to be a deeper part of the lab, tubes filled with bodies, and more hanging from wires. And a lot of technology.
“Welcome ladies to MY lab~”
Brock tries to say something but is cut off before he could utter a breath
“No you will NOT be taking credit. I don't care if this is within YOU lab, this is my laboratory… You put me here so this place is mine dickwad.
Chapter written by Psy and River
