The Soul of the First Man was never supposed to be a fighter or a killer. His purpose in creation was to grow, first plants and animals, then humans. His family.
How far must one fall to reach the lows he has gotten himself into? Exterminations. Slaying Sinners, cleaving heads from shoulders and painting it all as a gift of final rest to those who didn’t deserve peace. The mask he wore would shield him from red blood yet he finds that with each year he could taste more and more of it. Such an iron, such a bitter and hopeless taste that rots his tongue. Maybe that’s why he opted to scream and yell, anything to project his voice, to get that poison out of his maw…
In the end, regardless of how much he participated in the fight, there was at least one thing to look forward to. The day after sporting a rather large party for him and the girls to indulge in. They too were infected with something far greater than judgment to be cast into Hell. A sickness that Heaven refuses to speak upon, such bloodthirsty warriors conditioned to feel nothing but rage as that was the greatest piety they could offer their lord above.
These parties, as hypocritical as they were, began to simmer down year after year. The music began to fade, the drinks piled up untouched and merely forgotten about and the mood for such a celebration dwindled to just embers as opposed to it being such a bright fire.
For the Exorcists, they had no one but themselves. Such radical war machines that prided their service to the Lord above in unconventional ways. However they weren’t immune to the snide eyes and standoffish tones of their peers. Being looked at as abominations created by a failed experiment. They weren’t seen as equals, merely barbarians that had no sense of self, no real moral authority and no place in Heaven.
For The First Man… the days after the exterminations, once the thrill of the highlife had finally began to mean nothing to him, thats when his conscious caught and spoke of reparations and deep wounding cuts.
Adam would always find himself alone those days after now, surrounded by broken furniture, glass and anything he could get his hands on. Of course in Heaven, nothing was truly broken, everything he was dead set on destroying would slowly put itself back together, to which he would break it again and again and again. Spite, anger, jealousy. How can Heaven put back together a simple chair but refuse to fix his own mind?
It was almost like a cruel joke. This place showing him that it can but it won’t.
Adam would repeat this as many times as his hands would allow, screaming, clutching items as hard as he could, throwing an item at the wall and when that neglected to show any signs of damage he would throw himself into it. A wave of fists doing their damndest to break this cage he was in.
His chest heaved, slowly up and down, stopping his movements when looking at the minor crack of the wall he got. But that too would soon recover, an upward arch of a crack that seemed to smile at him until it disappeared completely leaving him with golden bloody knuckles that stained his robes.
That too would disappear as he’s seen many times before.
Even the sweat that dripped from his back and cooled his skin when pressed against the wall would eventually disappear and make the fabric perfect once more. Adam finds himself sliding down the wall until he ends up in a sitting position. When looking back to his home, all he saw was everything back to its rightful spot. Repaired, new, untouched.
There wasn’t any use, why even try. It was easier to give up, give in. Slowly his body would slump over, one of his large golden wings flopped loosely over his upper body and stayed there like a blanket.
Tomorrow will be the same day, get up, go to work, be reprimanded by Sera, piss off Lute, look through the files of new Sinners, look at atrocities committed by the very people he started, blame himself, be blamed for it all, be yelled at for killing and he would do it all with a lousy indifference as if nothing could hurt him.
But today, the one day after too many, Adam would let himself grieve. For himself, for his kin and for what could have been.